Reunion
by Love Out Of Lust
Summary: An exploration of what life could be like for Ste and Brendan when Brendan returns from prison.
1. Chapter 1

I'll be at the club having a dance, drinking the drinks that he brings me - he always pays for them, won't let me pay even when I insist, even when I stare him down and tell him I won't talk to him for the rest of the night if he doesn't let me buy them. He's stubborn, see, and he knows how to hold his own. He'll cross his arms, look at me, tilt his head to the side as the strobe lights ghost over him, highlighting his features, making his beard turn fluorescent with the colours. It would be funny if he didn't look so serious.

_I'm buying them._ He's gruff, and he only starts smiling when I accept, when I kiss him and ask him if he wants to dance. He'll laugh, tell me he's got work to do, but I know him: I know he just doesn't want to dance. He gets embarrassed, thinks he isn't any good at it. He's right, he's fucking awful, but I don't care. I like seeing him like that, in the centre of the floor, swaying like he doesn't know what to do with himself, loosening up when he's got a few drinks down him. He's the only thing I can see.

But nights like tonight, he's behind the bar, and it's like all those years ago, when my entire world consisted of him and this place. I stop dancing, stand in the corner of the room for a moment, eyes connecting with his. I just need a second. I just need a second to believe that this is happening, that we're back in Chez Chez, that he's here, real and solid in front of me. He sees me, and I must look strange, because he frowns and makes his way over to me, through the throngs of people dancing and chatting to their mates.

"You okay, Steven?" He's still frowning, and he sweeps my hair back like it's the most natural thing in the world. He does that a lot these days; touches me in public for the world to see. I don't think he understands what it means, how it still takes my breath away.

"Fine." I straighten up, wipe a hand across my eyes hurriedly. He'll think I'm soft if he knew what was going on in my head, but he's not giving up; his hand cups my chin, and he makes me look at him.

"Did I do something?"

I can't let him think that it's him, that he's upset me.

"No, it's just...you know, being back here." I don't know why it's suddenly hit me now. The club's been renamed Chez Chez for months now, and I spend most evenings here, coming to see Brendan during his lunch hour. I should be used to it, but everything - from the old, familiar music that's playing, to the Johnny Cash records stored away in the corner, to the sight of Brendan sitting in his chair in the office - it all takes me back. It feels like I'm being jolted back to a time that I thought was lost for ever.

Brendan doesn't say anything. I feel his hand move to the back of my neck. He strokes me there gently, just the merest movement of his fingers. His touch is warm, and it reminds me of the early mornings and late nights we share, waking up tangled in sheets, feeling his stomach pressed against my back. Sometimes he'll have his arms around me, and it'll make me late for work: I won't want to dislodge him. There's something safe about lying there with him, and when I leave I lose that safety.

"Let me get my coat." He moves away from me.

"Are we going?" It's still early, not close to his shift finishing.

"I'll get someone to cover."

"You don't have to do that." My protest is weak; I want him to. I shouldn't be asking for him to come home, not when he'll be missing out on the pay, not when the staff might need him, but I need him too. I want to get him back to the flat.

He kisses me on the forehead, mouths _one second_. I lean against the wall, finishing my drink as I wait for him. I know he'll be talking to his staff, giving them instructions. I smile. I like the thought of him telling them what to do, of him having the power to walk out of here with me.

I stand still for a moment when he leaves the office. He's got his coat on now. It's big but it still doesn't look like it can contain him. He's stronger than he's ever been. Some of his old shirts don't fit him anymore. the buttons bursting at the seams. His arms are _massive_. He's told me my eyes glaze over when I look at them. I've told him he's a cocky bastard who's in love with his own reflection. Both of us might be right.

He's gorgeous. I don't think it's just me who looks at him. Every woman in this place would have him if they could; some of the men too. I see it in the girls' eyes when they're served by him. They'll lean closer, put on these baby voices which make me roll my eyes. If they come back their tops are always lower, their boobs close to bursting out of the material. Sometimes I'll let them carry on believing that they stand a chance. Other times I'll tire of it, their hands on him, their words suggestive. I'll come behind the bar even when it's really busy, and I'll kiss him - Brendan will be unresponsive at first, trying to be professional, trying to push me off, but he gives into it every time. His mouth will grow slack, his lips will press against mine, and if I grip his arse his dick will grow thick enough so that I can feel it digging into my thigh.

You should see the faces of the women when we draw apart. They're _priceless_. Some of them get so mad they walk away and we never see them again. Others stare at us for a long time. Some ask us to do it again. Women are weird.

Brendan blinks at me. There's a crease on his forehead and I can see his mind working, trying to figure out what's going on.

"What?" He stares behind him as though I'm looking at someone else. But I'm not. Of course I'm not. There is no one else.

"Nothing." I shake my head, trying to focus. I'm behaving oddly tonight, and he can see it. I try to rein it in as best as I can, but it's been exactly a year since he was released, and this day feels - what's that word he once used? - momentous. It feels momentous.

"You're a strange wee fella, Steven." He kisses me like he loves my strangeness, and he stands back to let me walk down the stairs first. People call him a gentleman sometimes, people who don't know him. _Your husband is so sweet, Ste. _Brendan will laugh, the kind of laughter that once sounded manic but now sounds more controlled. _You so don't know me. _I'll start telling them that he's not a gentleman, not even close, not when we're alone together in the bedroom, but Brendan will shoot me a look that cuts me off. He likes that to stay private, I think. It doesn't stop him from fucking me on his desk in the middle of the day.

We walk back to the flat. I can still hear the music from Chez Chez, but it dies away and all we're left with is our footsteps before we start talking. He asks me about my day, because we couldn't talk in the club, not properly. I remember how odd it seemed when he first came out of prison and back to me: I wasn't used to it, to someone asking me how I was. They wanted to know how long I'd been clean for. That's what they measured my happiness by: how many days or weeks or months it had been since I'd injected.

I see him smiling as I look over at him. I like that I make him smile, and that I make him laugh, knowing that I'm the one who transforms him. He can be a moody bastard sometimes, banging doors and swearing at work when something goes wrong, but when it's like it is now, just the two of us, it's like he forgets all that and there's only room for this.

He stops smiling when we get home. Something's not right, we can feel it. The door's not locked properly even though I'm sure that I checked it over when I left for work. I immediately think that someone's broken in, but there's the sound of the television in the background, and I can't imagine an intruder kipping in front of the tv, waiting for us to come back.

Brendan gets in front of me, a hand on my chest to hold me back.

"Bren -"

I don't want him to be the one to move first. I'd rather go; at least then I wouldn't have to worry about being scared for him.

We jump when we see a figure emerge from the kitchen. Then I start laughing, relief flooding through me.

"Leela!"

She's wearing an apron, her hair tied back in a pony tail. She must have seen the alarm on our faces, because she raises her hands in defense.

"Did you not get my text?"

I get my phone out from my pocket, looking at it for the first time in hours. There's a message and a missed call from Amy. She's always telling me to check my phone more, but I forget; I forget when I'm with Brendan.

I open the message from Leela.

_Going to cook you a meal at your place tonight. Whole family will be there xx_

She still has the key I gave her from a while back, the key that she'd insisted I give her. For emergencies, she'd said. I knew what she was thinking. She'd wanted to be able to get into my flat if she hadn't heard from me, in case I'd overdosed. It had felt stupid at the time, but I'd given it to her just to get her to shut up.

"That's nice of you." My tone must say otherwise.

"We never see you anymore." She looks at Brendan who's moved from in front of me to beside me. I know what she's thinking: she's thinking he's the reason for my absence, for why I rarely drop by Dad's place anymore. She's right, even if I can't bring myself to tell her that.

"You're seeing me now." I hug her, and it's then that I see into the room across from me. Peri and Tegan are sitting on the sofa. I know Danny and Sam will be with them, hidden by the door.

"You really did mean the whole family," I say, and I see the fleeting look of hurt that spreads across Leela's face. She wouldn't be able to make sense of it, wouldn't accept the truth; that I love her, that I love all of them, but since Brendan's returned, everything but him and the kids have turned into background noise. I see it and I hear it, but I can barely feel it. It isn't as important as it once was, and it would break their hearts if I told them.

::::::

Brendan wants to fuck me.

He's sitting opposite me at the table. Danny had led Brendan into his seat before we'd had a chance to sit together. Brendan's wary around my dad; he doesn't much like him, I can tell. He doesn't much like any of them, but he makes an effort. He's polite, as polite as I've ever seen him, and he compliments Sam on her cooking, shows an interest in what Peri's studying at school. But he's not really there; he's looking at me as I drink wine, as I wince at the taste. He looks at my fingers around the glass, at my lips on the rim. I haven't shaved in a week, and he likes it, the hint of stubble. His eyes are everywhere; I feel exposed, can feel myself growing hotter underneath my clothes.

I know what he'd been planning before we got interrupted. He'd wanted to bring me back here, get me on the bed, fuck me. Maybe open me up with his fingers first, or his tongue; maybe have me on him, lying across him, giving him head. I'm thinking about it too, and it's making my knees shake under the table. Brendan's growing agitated; we haven't fucked since two nights ago. We'd been too tired last night, so I'd fingered him till he'd spilled on the sheets and he'd sucked me till I'd bucked in his grasp, but it's all I can think about now. His foot brushes against mine - accidentally, I think - and our eyes lock and his seem to darken. He wants my family gone.

When I go into the kitchen with the empty plates, he follows me there.

"What are you doing?" I know what he's doing. I know what he's like, and when he pushes me back against the counter I don't reel from the shock of it. Instead I'm on him, pressing full length against him, my hands in his hair. His mouth is warm, and I hear myself groan into it. He shushes me, but I don't listen. I want him, and for a moment I forget about the fact we've got company and I begin to undo his jeans, get my hand down his pants long enough to make him hard.

He puts a hand over mine, removes it.

"Get rid of them." He's breathing harshly, his forehead against mine. Realising how he might sound, he releases a laugh. "Please."

When I go back into the room, there's no sign that we've been overheard. Even so I can feel heat spread to my face, and I keep my head down as I collect the wine glasses.

"I think me and Brendan are going to have an early night. We're both knackered."

I hear Tegan snort, and when I look at her she's sharing a glance with Leela. Their faces go blank when they see me looking.

Brendan joins me at the door to say bye to them. He shakes Danny's hand and kisses Sam on the cheek, and he's good with the girls, says goodbye to each of them personally. His smile never slips, but I can see the tension there.

He's on me the second they're gone. He pushes me against the wall, and when I take a sharp intake of breath he leans back, concern in his expression.

"Sorry - did I hurt you?"

"Doesn't matter." I pull him closer, and the way I bite his lip tells him it's okay; sometimes I like it rough. I don't think we'll make it to the bedroom; he makes no attempt to take me there. I do some of his work for him - pull off my tracksuit bottoms and boxers together to make it quicker, wrangling them over my trainers. I nearly fall, but he holds onto me. He plays with my dick while I try to take my t-shirt off. It makes it difficult - I get caught up in what he's doing, and in the end I leave it on, feeling his thumb brushing over my foreskin. I'm whimpering into his neck, these noises which seem to be ripped from me without my control. I don't recognise myself when I'm making them, but he likes it; he whispers it into my ear sometimes, _louder_. It makes him hard: I can feel him growing as I moan.

When I get his shirt open I see the necklace, the cross lying against his chest hair. He drops his clothes onto the floor. When he's naked he grabs my t-shirt in his fist, balling it up as he lifts it over my stomach, kissing my belly button, licking over my nipples, rubbing his beard across my throat in a way that makes me shiver. It feels softer than I imagined; when I kissed him for the first time after he came home, I then made him kiss me everywhere, wanting to feel it against me.

He sinks to his knees, stares up at me. I know what he's about to do, and I feel anticipation pool in my gut. He prolongs it, kissing along my thighs, against the grain of where the hair grows, tongue flickering in and out, up and down. He's not being fair; my expression must tell him so, because he barks a laugh.

"Something wrong?" He asks, all false innocence.

I open my mouth, about to protest when he angles my dick between his lips, and I lose all words.

I lean back against the wall, eyes closed as I feel his wet mouth on me, lips secured tightly and moving down my shaft. I hear a banging noise, realise after a moment that it's me, my fist knocking against the wall as Brendan takes me down to the root, his hands by his sides. I can hear him breathing through his nose, long steady breaths that grow louder as I start to fuck his mouth. He reaches behind me, drags me forward so he can use my hips for leverage, control the speed at which I'm moving.

We move at some point; I'm not sure if it's him moving me or me moving him, but we're on the sofa, crashing onto it. Brendan lands on top of me, gets my dick in his hands, jerks me off relentlessly. I hear myself: _please_, and he shows mercy; lets out a growl and grabs hold of my ankles, lifts them onto his shoulders. My dick's in his face now, and he licks the head while looking at me dead in the eyes. My eyes flicker; one moment staring into his, the next seeing what he's doing with his hands, his mouth, his tongue.

I come jaggedly into his mouth. He has to hold me still to stop me from getting it everywhere, from spilling over our new sofa. I break away from him, laughing. He wipes the back of his mouth, licks his lips while he stares at me.

"You're amazing." He says it almost soberly, not a hint that he's teasing.

"I know." I grin at him, get my breath back and reach for a tissue from the box on the table. I wipe myself down then lift my t-shirt off over my head, only just noticing the marks he's left on me from the previous night, faded but visible smudges over my chest, down my back. His eyes drift over them, admiring his handiwork. I've left some of my own - he has a mark on his neck, a_ fucking love bite,_ as Brendan had called it, grumbling that someone at work might see and take the piss.

"Your turn now." I straddle him, kiss him, feel his cock grazing against me. I rise and fall on it, rubbing it against me without going in.

Brendan laughs. "My turn or your turn?" He raises his eyebrows then looks down at my groin; I'm getting hard again.

I kiss him then lift myself off him, feeling exposed in my nakedness.

"Both." I smile, leave him in the room and enter the bedroom quickly, rifling through the drawers until I find the lube, almost dropping it and skidding across the carpet in my desperation to get back to him. He's spread out across the sofa, pillow behind his head, dick pointing towards the ceiling. His balls look heavy and full, his arms stretched above his head.

I stop, look at him, start walking again when he sees me.

He takes the lube from me, strokes it across my rim, coats his cock with it, takes his time. I think he thinks it might hurt me, us not having done it properly in two days. But I'm impatient now; I stop him from emptying more lube into his hand, sitting in his lap and winding my arms around him while he positions his cock, opens me up with it.

There's something about doing it out in the open like this, on the sofa when there's a perfectly good bed down the hallway. There's a thrill to it, a rush. Maybe it reminds me of past times, of being back in his old flat, fucking against the sofa back when he wanted me behind closed doors. I shouldn't want to remember those times, but I do; I want to remember everything, everything that includes him. It's everything else I want to forget, the hollows and the cracks in between.

He's in me now, on me, all over me. He does this thing where he says my name and it sounds like nothing else, like nothing else I've ever heard in my life. It's addictive: I missed it while he was away, because no one else ever said my name like that. No one ever spoke to me like that, like I was their whole world and they would die without me. I began to forget what that felt like.

It's small, this sofa. Bigger than my last one but small all the same, and not built for his body and mine. We're making do though; Brendan's holding me as close to him as he can, feels like I'm being squeezed the proximity is so close, but I think it's me too - I think I'm squeezing him just as hard, and my hands are in his hair and I'm pulling a bit, pulling in a way that makes him bite down on my shoulder as he fucks me. Sometimes when I look at him before we do it - do _this_ - I can't believe I could take it, that my body would accommodate him. I remember being scared the first time he fucked me, wondering how we'd fit, if I'd break, because he's - well, he's _big_, isn't he? But I stop thinking about it when we're together like this, when he's inside me, because we do: we do fit. We always have done.

He sounds like a monster when he comes. I told him that once, and I think it hurt him at first - he doesn't like that word. I told him I didn't mean it like that; told him that I meant the way he grunts when he gets close, and how he swears when he climaxes, and how there's a kind of deep rumble in his chest when he finishes me off, like nothing makes him more satisfied than seeing me come; that's all I meant.

I don't call him a monster now. I lie in his arms after he's come, and I still feel full of him even when he takes his dick out of me. I know his cum's inside of me, know that by tomorrow fresh marks will have appeared on my bum from where he's held onto me when I was riding him.

"I love you." I say it against his shoulder where my lips are, my words muffled.

"I love you too." He puts an arm around me, and we sleep.

::::::

He gets jealous sometimes.

He says he doesn't. He says he doesn't do jealousy, and he pouts at me in a way that he accuses me of doing. It makes him angry; he'll tell me to fuck off, and he'll owe me a dozen _Sorry Steven_ cocktails afterwards.

He can deny it all he likes. I know jealousy, because I feel it too. I feel it every time I see him talking to some bloke, even if I know that they're straight, that they wouldn't go there - that Brendan wouldn't go there. I feel sort of irritated, and I watch him with them, whoever it is - Darren or one of them Roscoe's, even though I know Brendan can't stand them, particularly that Freddie. I think Brendan still blames him after I told him about Freddie cheating me out of my money all those years ago.

So like I said, I know jealousy. And I know how he gets.

I'm at Chez Chez on a Friday night, waiting for his shift to be over. Usually I'd be home by now, because I get tired after being on my feet all day, and he can stay on at the club till two, three in the morning. But sometimes - times like today - I just want to see him. It calms me down. Even if I'm just in the corner having a drink or a bit of a dance, I'll look over and see him serving behind the bar, or know that he's just in his office doing some paperwork, and it relaxes me. And I need relaxing, because sometimes it's hard to forget that Brendan was taken from me, that I didn't see him for years, and moments like today would have been impossible. I came to this club a lot while he was away - when I was trying to buy it, and when I saw it being renamed, and every time it was like his ghost was haunting the place, and however much I tried to ignore it, he was always there.

I get chatted up some nights. Some of the guys are pretty wasted, and they'll approach me and give me their best lines, ask me if I want another drink, if I want to go out and get some air. I try and be polite; give them the brush off quickly so they won't embarrass themselves. Most of them get the message and look for someone else to try and spend the night with, but some hang around; some like the guy here tonight. It's easier with the others - they're strangers, and even if I end up hurting their feelings, I don't have to worry about it too much.

But this is different. This is John Paul.

He's bladdered. I notice it almost straight away. I think he's celebrating - Finn got his sentence increased today, and John Paul's out with his family. I see Mercedes and Carmel a short distance behind him. When they see me they turn away, and I see something like disgust on Mercedes's face.

"Congratulations." I smile at him, and I mean it: I'm happy for him.

"Cheers. Can I get you a drink?" He has to shout above the music to be heard, and I'm worried that Brendan will hear him, will recognise his voice.

"Nah, you're alright." I hold up my drink, showing him that I have enough. I'm not a big drinker these days. I'll have something on special occasions - when Cheryl and Nate visit, or when me and Bren are celebrating something - but it reminds me of things.

"Come on." John Paul nudges me on the shoulder, makes some of my drink spill over the edge of the glass and go onto my jeans. I brush them down with one hand; I don't make a scene.

"Leave it, John Paul," Mercedes says, her voice carrying across the club. She's still looking at me like she hates me. I deserve it so I say nothing.

"No, come on. What's wrong, Ste? Brendan won't let you?" His light tone is betrayed by the way his lip curls.

I can feel Brendan behind me before I see him. I see the way John Paul's eyes drift upwards, and it seems to sober him up, the sight of Brendan. Carmel's still scared of him; all these years later I think she still sees him screaming at her, telling her she's stupid. Mercedes crosses her arms, the picture of defiance.

"Everything alright here?" Brendan's voice is cold. I feel his hand on the small of my back. I know he's keeping calm for my sake, reining in everything he's feeling.

"Fine," I say quickly; I don't want this to blow up like it has in the past. John Paul says nothing.

"Ladies, can I get you a drink?" Brendan asks, and Mercedes laughs like he's unbelievable. "I'll take that as a no then..."

They leave before he can say anything else. Relief spreads through me; I feel like I can breathe again, and I put my hands on the collar of Brendan's shirt when I turn to him. He shrugs me off, pretends like he's not doing it, but I know he is. He backs away, and his good mood from earlier in the evening has evaporated like it does every time he sees John Paul. He stalks into the office, and even with the noise of the music I can hear the door slamming.

::::::

When Brendan gets home I pretend I'm asleep. The covers are drawn up to my neck, and I close my eyes even when I'm desperate to look at him, to see if he's still angry, or worse, hurt.

I feel the dip of the bed as he gets in, and there's the rub of material against my leg: he hasn't taken off his boxers.

He tells me he loves me. I think i'm imagining it, but the need to know is my undoing, and I no longer try to fake sleep. I roll over, eyes wide now, trying to read his expression in the darkness.

"I love you." He's not looking at me, and he's quiet, but I'm certain that he's saying it this time.

"I'm sorry."

"What did I tell you? You don't ever apologise to me, Steven - not ever."

"Yeah, but -" Everything in me wants to argue. I know how it hurts him, being reminded of my past. We can talk about it all we want: say that he told me to live my life, that he didn't tell me not to move on. But it's the details that kill him; who I did things with. What I did. How I ended up in a treatment centre on a methadone script when he thought he'd find me happy, settled. I'd laughed in his face when he'd told me that. _As if I'd be happy, you fucking idiot. _

"But nothing." Brendan shakes his head, looks like I'm giving him a headache, and maybe I am. "I just..."

"Yeah, I know."

I know. I've lied awake sometimes when he's been working, and I've cried for what we lost. I pull myself together eventually; I always do, but it takes a while.

I can't help but ask the question I've asked him before. I know he'll grow sick of it. He married me, not my insecurities, but they don't feel like separate things anymore: they breed and fester in the dark when I'm away from him, when I look back at my life.

"Are you ashamed of me?" I wipe my nose. My voice sounds congested, and I struggle to make it appear normal. I can't hide from him though.

There's something horrified about his expression. He looks like this every time I suggest it, like he can't imagine a world where that could be true.

"No."

"But -" But George, I want to say. George, days after you'd left. Doug, again, when it was over for good when me and Brendan properly got together. John Paul; I want to tell Brendan the twisted truth of me and John Paul, and how every time I was with him I thought of Dublin, and so I thought of him. How he was connected to Brendan. I want to ask him how he can forgive me, how he can look at me after Pauline and the drugs and what I am, but I think if I remind him of these things, he may never look at me like he loves me again.

"I just...I get jealous sometimes."

I look at him in the darkness, my eyes beginning to adjust. I've never heard him say those words before.

"Yeah?" A part of me feels glad; a part of me wants him to never feel that way again.

"Yeah." he mutters it, and I think he hopes that I won't be able to hear him. Then there's more, spoken in a whisper. "He got to be with you when I couldn't be."

I hold him. I don't stop holding him for a few minutes. He smells of booze and he's cold from the outside, pulling me closer to get my warmth. I want to tell him how I feel about him, _everything_ that I feel about him, but it would scare him, wouldn't it? It would scare him, knowing that I can't live without him, that if I lost him a second time that would be it.

"It's only you. I just feel guilty, Brendan. I can't just tell him to fuck off, can I? Not after how things ended with us when you came back." I've never told anyone that I wish I _could_ tell him to fuck off. It would sound cold, heartless - John Paul's gone through enough; he deserves better than that. But whenever I look at him I remember what my life was like before, and it hurts so much i can hardly stand it.

"But it has ended, hasn't it?"

"Of course." I laugh - he still doesn't know, does he? He still doesn't know that with him here, this was always going to be it.

I think we'll talk some more, that I'll reassure him, that maybe he'll try and lighten the atmosphere, tease me a bit for my dancing at the club earlier, anything to take our minds off this. But he doesn't - he rolls me onto my back and gets on top of me, his eyes shining, his stubble dark, his cross hanging over me so that if I leant forward, I could catch it with my teeth.

He kisses me. I open my mouth to let his tongue in, and our bodies slip and slide together. I expect there to be a sort of frantic energy to his actions, a frenzied desperation, but he surprises me; he's soft, gentle. He kisses me deeply, and his hands glide over my body, stroking along my arms, coming in between where we're connected, securing around my cock. He strokes me, hand slowly moving along my shaft, kissing me to quieten me, to taste me.

Sometimes he uses words, but sometimes this is how he loves me.

::::::

_Three years ago_

I see him when I close my eyes. I'm on the floor of Tony's kitchen, and I can hardly feel my body. I'm drifting, feel like I'm suspended in mid air, like I'm flying.

It's then that I see him.

He's dressed in a red shirt, the shirt he first kissed me in that cellar in, and black trousers that cling to him. His shoes are shiny; he looks put together, like he's made an effort, and I flush as I wonder if it's for me.

In these dreams - _hallucinations_, my doctor will later call them, and I'll laugh at that clinical term as I realise that I've become another patient, another problem - he walks towards me like he's never been away. He's worried though; he's frowning, staring me up and down like he's confused by what he sees.

"What happened to you?"

I hush him. I don't want to go into all that now. He shouldn't be asking me this, shouldn't be trying to make me sad. We should just _be_ together.

I motion for him to join me. He nods, and then we're both flying. I think he takes my hand; I can't see it, but mine no longer feels empty.

I'm not sure what we talk about, if we talk at all. I think I just look at him; the hairs of his moustache, the lines around his eyes, the knowledge that he's older than me and stronger than me, that if he was here, really and truly here, he could save me from all this. John Paul and Danny and Tony keep on saying it to me: you've got to save yourself, Ste. No one's going to do it for you.

But Brendan would, wouldn't he? He would know what to say, what to do. He would know how to fix it.

When I wake up, it's like I've lost him all over again. And I'm never, ever going to get him back.

Except -

Except the reason that I know I'll wake up tomorrow and the next day and the next is that one day -

One day I might.


	2. Chapter 2

He's breathing hard. I stare up at him from the foot of the bed where I'm kneeling, and I watch his chest rise and fall, registering the sounds he makes. I like watching him. I like touching him more, but this - sitting, seeing him with his eyes shut like he's drifted somewhere else, his expression so relaxed like he's almost falling asleep, dick in hand and making himself come - I like it.

When cum spurts onto his stomach and he cleans himself off, he glances at me knowingly. There's something in his eyes then; smugness perhaps, because he knows what he does to me, just like he's always known. But there's something else there, under the surface. An insecurity maybe, like he's seeking my approval, like he's waiting for me to come to him, because if he can see me up close and he can feel me, then I must be real.

I crawl over to him. I'm naked and cold, and Brendan must see the goosebumps on my arms because he gets the cover and draws it over us both. I settle in his lap, rub against him lightly, feel his dick against my skin. It's soft now, used up, but he can get hard again quickly, and I use it to my advantage; brush all of me against all of him, kissing him like I'm rewarding him for doing what he's just done.

"Steven." His voice sounds rough, how it does in the early mornings or when he's recovering from a cold. I want to kiss him, but he wants to talk; it's unusual for him, and I laugh. The last thing he wants to do at night is have a conversation.

"I want to come to a meeting."

I break off from where I've been kissing his beard. I search his eyes, wait for him to say more, but there's something nagging at me, a worry that won't leave now it's come.

I think I know what he's talking about, and it's scaring me.

"A meeting?" I get off him a bit; I'm still touching him, but I'm not straddling him anymore. I think he notices, because he grabs hold of my wrists like he's trying to keep me with him.

"There's one this Thursday, isn't there?" He avoids looking at me.

I'm surprised he's remembered the day. It's not something we often talk about; my decision, I know, because he's asked me plenty of times before I'd snapped at him, made him reluctant to bring it up again.

"Yeah." I feel colder than I was before. I bring the cover up to my neck, leaning my chin against it.

"Let me come with you." It sounds as though he's pleading, and Brendan never pleads, not anymore, because what he wants is exactly what I want too.

"No." It comes out bluntly. I try and soften my voice, stay neutral, but I feel aware of everything now; aware of how I can't easily get out of this. Aware that he may have been planning on bringing this up for hours now - days - and I never even knew. What else is he keeping from me, if he's kept this? If this has been in his head the entire time, and he said nothing until now.

"I can't," I say, and I think he'll get it, that he'll understand, but he isn't taking the hint.

"It's my fault." There's a deep line across his forehead now, and his eyes hurt to look at; they look distressed, and I never wanted to see them like that again.

"No it's not -" I try to cut in, because I know how Brendan gets when he starts on like this, and nothing and no one can stop him, not even me. It's like he gets this idea in his head, and he won't allow anyone to shift it, and the idea gets darker and darker till there's no room for anything good.

"Listen. Listen to me." He knows I won't, that I won't listen while he attacks himself, so he puts a hand over my lips. "It's _my_ fault," he says again, and he jabs a hand at his heart in a way that's hard enough to be painful. "If I'd been here then you'd never have... "

He doesn't finish, because we both know what I'd never have done if he'd have been here. I wouldn't have done a lot of things. Half of my life.

"You shouldn't have to go through it alone, Steven. Let me come with you."

He's looking at me now, and I think it's deliberate - I think he knows that if he looks at me, then I can't say no.

"Please."

"Fine." I speak it into the cover, and it's a good thing that he can't see my body, because I think I'm shaking. No one's ever come with me to a meeting, and I've kept it that way for a reason. Him being there, hearing everything that's said - everything that _I _say - it's never been part of the plan.

But the thought of walking through the doors, and not being alone -

It's comforting. And Brendan's strong enough for the both of us.

::::::

He takes longer getting ready than I do.

"We're gonna be late." I've been staring at the clock every five minutes, convinced that time's going faster, that something will go wrong - the traffic, the engine of the car, that Brendan will get in one of his moods and get into some argument with another driver.

"We've still got time."

He's right, I know he's right, but it doesn't stop me from pacing. He notices, comes over to me, gives my shoulders a push so that I flop back onto the bed while he walks back to the wardrobe and picks out what he's going to wear.

"I don't get why you're the nervous one." He's already rejected three outfits. He hasn't said anything - I don't think he wants me to sense that he's panicking, but he's gone back and forth to the mirror to look at himself, still not settling on anything.

"I'm not nervous." He sounds dismissive; he's doing that thing where he's cold with me, makes me feel like I'm the one who's wrong, because the alternative is worse. I sit back on the bed in silence, and he must realise what he's done, because he mumbles _sorry_ under his breath and reaches for another shirt, throwing me an apologetic glance.

"S'alright." I sniff. He's not the only one who's being a nightmare today: I've been off with him all morning, barely saying thank you when he brought me tea and toast in bed, and making excuses when he tried to suck the erection that I'd woken up with; I'd gone into the bathroom instead, had a shave, got myself ready. Whatever I'd done, I didn't want to look like a fuck up. I wanted to look good, you know? Like someone who had moved on, who wasn't that person anymore.

I don't think it works though. I don't think you can put on a new shirt and some fancy aftershave and product in your hair and just _be_ a new person. You can act as high and mighty as you want, but if you've got things you're running away from, things you'd rather forget, then they're going to catch up with you. It's pointless to try and fool people at these meetings - I tried that, and it got me nowhere. No one cares about all the great things I say about my life, and how_ I'm different_ and _I've changed_ and_ I'm not an addict anymore. _All they care about is the truth.

That's why I've ended up wearing an old tracksuit and my favourite trainers. I look tired - there are circles under my eyes, and I look like I haven't seen the sun in a week. I didn't look like this a few days ago, but it's something about this day, and knowing what I'm about to do. I concentrate on Brendan, because whenever I do everything else manages to go up in smoke: he's chosen something to wear now, a plain white shirt and some black trousers, and his beard is dark and his eyes are warm when he looks at me.

"We going then?" He asks, and I laugh because he's talking like it's him that's been waiting for me.

I sit beside him in the car. He's careful when he's driving; I think he knows that I might be feeling a bit nervous, because I barely ate my toast and I left most of the tea, and I'm not talking much as we make our way there.

"Want the radio on?"

"Go on then."

He turns it on, some station that I know he doesn't like, but which he's putting up with for my sake.

My hand reaches out quickly, turns it off. Brendan stares at me.

"Don't like that song," I mumble. I don't tell him why - that I'd heard it once ages ago, back when he'd left me for ever - what I thought was for ever. It was at the club, or maybe when I'd first started working at The Hutch. It was just something on in the background, nothing bad, but I remember the things I was feeling at the time, and how he wasn't there, and how I thought I'd never have him there again.

"We can change it if you want?" He's staring at me in worry, and I wouldn't blame him if he thinks I'm a headcase.

"No, you're alright." I don't know how many other songs are going to remind me of that time.

"Okay."

We don't say anything for a few minutes. I feel sick, like my insides are rearranging themselves, twisting in on me. I reach for the button to wind the window down, my hand accidentally brushing against Brendan's leg.

"If you want me to stop, go back, then tell me," he says.

"And not show my face there? Let everyone down? No."

"I mean - I mean me, Steven. I mean for me to go back." He's quiet, staring straight ahead, and I know he'd do it. I know he'd do it in a heartbeat.

"No." I don't know where this is coming from, because less than ten minutes ago I wanted him at home rather than next to me; I wanted to know that he was separate from this world of mine that I'd helped to create. Separate from these meetings.

"Just say the word -"

"I want you." I turn my face from where I've been leaning out of the window, trying to get the cool air on my skin. I look at him, reach over and put my hand on his thigh. "I want you here."

Something about my words must reassure him, because he drops it, accepts it. He gives me a smile, and it's _my_ smile, the smile that only I get to see.

"You'd never let anyone down."

"What?"

"The people at this...meeting. You'd never let them down, Steven. Don't worry about them, yeah? This isn't about them, or me. This is about you."

It's still difficult sometimes. Being used to someone speaking to me like this again - like they see something in me, something that's not all bad.

I'm about to say something,_ thank you_ or _I love you_ or both, but Brendan's pulling up now, and it shocks me when I realise we're already there, in front of the building where I've gone every Thursday for the past few years. It's familiar, but I see it in a new light now that Brendan's here: I try and work out whether it looks formal, scary, like somewhere that cages you, hides you.

But it's a building. A plain, nondescript building. It could be a school or offices or anything, and Brendan doesn't look frightened when he looks at it.

"Lead the way." He holds out a hand, motioning for me to take a step forward. I know what he's thinking - he wants me to be in charge of this, to give the power to me so I don't feel helpless. But it feels hard to move my feet, like they're weighing me down, and I wish he would take my hand.

I guess it's time for me to be brave.

::::::

"So do we just...sit in the circle?"

We're on the outside looking in, stood in the corner of the room where the cups of water are, watching as people rearrange chairs around us. There are a couple of minutes until the meeting starts.

"Yeah. Why?" It seems obvious to me what we do here, but then I remember - of course Brendan won't know. He's never been to one of these things before, and that's down to me, to what I've chosen to keep from him.

"Nothing." He stares around, and for the first time I start thinking about how hard this must be for him too; coming here, admitting that he's part of this - it's the same as admitting his part in all of it. And it's not something he does everyday, meeting strangers. He'll meet them at the club of course, serving them and getting security to throw the rowdy ones out, but he doesn't have to talk to them, not properly. And he doesn't have to be on his best behaviour, not like he's trying to be now. I can see him making an effort, just like he does with Danny and my sisters, just like he's always done for me.

"Ste? You joining us?" Richard's nodding us over, and I see his eyes flicker towards Brendan for the smallest second before he looks away. He's like that, Richard - he's not the nosy sort, the kind who looks like he's judging someone before he's even spoken to them. He's one of the reasons why I stayed here when I wanted to be anywhere else.

Me and Brendan walk towards the circle, paper cups in hand. Brendan had asked when we'd approached the room whether there would be any whiskey, and for a moment I thought he was being serious, and I thought I'd make a mistake about the whole thing - if he couldn't even understand why having booze in here was a bad idea, then what was he even doing here in the first place? But he'd smiled at me, shook his head, and I knew he'd been having me on.

But now, sitting next to me, his legs moving up and down in the way they do when he wants to distract himself from his thoughts, he looks like he could do with a large glass.

The meetings start how they always do. I hadn't had time to prepare Brendan, to tell him what to expect, and he sits there not saying anything as Richard begins, welcoming everyone. There are some new people here - even if I wasn't a regular I'd know by how nervous they look - and they smile fleetingly before staring into their laps again, and fuck, it takes me back. It makes me remember the way I was when I came here; only I wasn't nearly as normal as they are. Whatever's going on in their heads, they're listening and paying attention. I don't think I heard a single word that was spoken in my first meeting.

Then we go round the group, saying our names. When I say mine I can hear Brendan beside me; he says _Steven_ quietly, a correction that I don't think he even realises he's making. Then it's his turn, and I hold my breath. I don't know what I'm worried about - maybe that he'll say something out of turn, or talk back to Richard, or refuse to speak at all. I feel instantly guilty when he says _Brendan. I'm here with Steven,_ and then leans back in his chair, looking at the next person who's speaking. I'm glad he couldn't hear me doubting him.

There's a bit where Richard reads from the Bible. I'd quickly learnt when I'd started here that that's what they do, and I'd fought against it: I didn't believe in all that, did I? And if I did then I couldn't have lived with myself; what kind of Christian would kill their mum and take drugs and act the way I acted? If there was a God and there was a heaven and a hell, then I knew where I was headed.

I'd settled down once Richard had explained it to me. He told me that it's what AA was built on, but that it didn't mean we all had to be religious. It was American, he said, and they believed in all that stuff more there. That made me think of Doug and how he had never believed in God, and then I thought how he had died right next to me and how it had all been my fault.

I stayed. I stayed because it was better than thinking of all that on my own. If I was around people - even a group of strangers who weren't my age or who didn't know anything about my life - then that was better than sitting in my flat and thinking about how I'd fucked everything up.

I sit still and listen as Richard reads, and I look across at Brendan. He's staring straight at Richard, and I wonder if he knows this bit, these words.

Then the part that I'm scared of starts. It's okay at first - the others start talking. We get fifteen minutes each; there has to be a time limit because some of the people here can talk for fucking ever. Mostly it's good to hear their stories, to know that you're not alone, but sometimes they'll say something that'll - what's the word - _trigger_ you. They'll mention the fact that they fell off the wagon or started taking again, and they'll start describing something. It'll just be an image - them buying the stuff, or injecting, but I'll start to remember and Richard will have to cut in, will remind everyone of the rules. He doesn't call them rules, doesn't want to be strict I don't think, but we all know that's what they are.

It's not like that today, not yet. Helen starts first. I like her. She's quiet but she's got this laugh on her, and hearing it when I'd barely been able to get out of bed in the morning had made things better. It had reminded me of when I used to laugh; really laugh, I mean. Brian's next; he keeps on looking at Brendan. I know how he looks - broad shoulders, too tight leather jacket, beard and moustache taking over most of his face. He could look threatening if you don't know him; he could look threatening even if you do.

I don't want it to be my turn. I know I can shake my head, tell them all that I don't want to speak today, but if I do that, then what's the point in me even coming here? I know Richard would tell me that it's enough that I'm here, that I'm sitting with them all, but that's not the point, not to me.

I say my name again, and even with those few words I can feel myself blushing. I've never had a problem with public speaking before, but this isn't a wedding speech or some poxy school presentation. I'm talking about me here - no one else, _me_ - and it should be easy, but it's not.

"I'm here with my -" I'm about to say husband, but I stop. It's not that I don't think Brendan would like it - he doesn't give a toss, not anymore. But it doesn't sound enough; doesn't really explain what we are. I finish with _Brendan_ and realise how stupid it sounds: _my Brendan._ I clear my throat, try and make it sound more natural with "my other half" added on. No one looks surprised. I'd told them that I was gay early on; it had become obvious with the mentions of Doug and John Paul, and when Brendan came back, so many of them had asked me what had happened, why I was suddenly smiling, why I was happy again. I had to tell them. I wanted to tell everyone about Brendan; if I did then it meant that he wasn't a part of my imagination. He really had come back to me.

"I...I don't really know what to say." I usually start like this; mumbling, avoiding everyone's eyes, trying to think of something to talk about. I'll start finding a rhythm, start getting more confident, but right now there's not a single thing in my head that seems worth mentioning. Things are good. Better than good. I'm working, I see the kids, me and Brendan are together. I haven't thought about using in years.

"Take your time, Ste," Richard says, and I wonder how he can be so endlessly patient with me, with all of us. He has a past - he's told us things, things which he doesn't seem capable of doing, but he doesn't let it affect him now. He never lets it show.

I shuffle in my seat. Brendan's gripping the arms of his, the skin of his hands taut, the veins on his arms visible.

"Things have been going well. Coming here, and Brendan being...Brendan being back, and here with me now...it's been good." It feels unsafe, talking about things like this. I've been in this situation before - my life being better than it's ever been, and thinking I've got it all sorted out, only for it to crumble down around me. Yeah, Brendan's back, but I had him before and I lost him.

"Steven?" Brendan leans forward, says it so quietly that I'm sure I'm the only one who can hear. "You okay?"

I nod. He drops it; I don't think he wants to interrupt me. Richard's staring between us, and I imagine him remembering all the things I've told him about Brendan; hating him before he came back from prison, and hating him when I saw him again, and hating myself for not being able to live without him.

"I haven't...I haven't thought about...you know, using again." I'm wary of what I say. I know some of the people here are still struggling with it, and I don't want to come off as some know it all, some idiot who's all_ look at me, look at my perfect life, I'm cured now. _"Brendan being here, it's...it's made me get better."

I hear a noise from the corner of the circle. It's one of the newcomers, a girl with long brown hair, dressed in a skirt and heels that reminds me of something that Mitzeee would wear.

"You got a problem, love?"

Richard shoots me a warning glance, but the girl - Stacey, I think she said she was called - doesn't seem to have been affected by it. She doesn't look offended.

"So you're saying that your boyfriend came back and you magically got better?" I can hear the judgement in her voice, the scepticism.

"No, that's not..." That's not what I'm saying. That's not the way it was. I'd begun to get clean before Brendan had come back. I'd gone to meetings, started taking methadone, pulled myself together enough that Amy had let me see the kids again. When Brendan came back, I wasn't myself again, but I was...I was better. I was better enough that he recognised me.

"So you needed a man to make you all better, did you?" She's practically rolling her eyes at me, and I can see Richard - and Brendan - wanting to step in and intervene, but I don't let them.

"Seriously, what's your problem?" I'm trying to remember: count to ten. Breathe. Don't lose it. She knows fuck all about my life.

"I'm just saying, that's fucked up, _love_. Relying on someone else like that. Should have done it yourself."

I get up from my seat, try and make my way towards her. I don't know what I'm going to do - hit her, be that man again? I just know that I need to make her stop.

But there's a hand on me, and it's strong, and it's pulling me back.

"Don't." Brendan's speaking into my ear, his breath hot. "Don't."

"Get off me." I'm struggling in his grasp, twisting my body to try and loosen his hold, but he's bigger than me and I've got no chance.

"Ste, maybe you should -" Richard begins, but I speak over him so he can't finish. I don't want to hear him throwing me out like I'm something dangerous, something that needs to be removed.

"I'm going."

I think I hear Richard protest, but it could be out of guilt, couldn't it? He might be saying what he thinks I want to hear. I'm not going to stay and have that girl judge me for an hour, thinking that I needed someone else to get myself sorted. _No_, I want to tell her. _No, it wasn't like that. It was me. It was all me, me being determined. _

But I can't. I can't say that to her, because I don't know if that's completely true.

It's easier to leave, and it's what I do.

::::::

We're lying in bed. I've phoned the kids and we've both had a chat with them, and then I spoke to Amy. I thought I was fooling her; I thought I sounded normal, but she still asked anyway, asked me if something was wrong. _No_, I'd told her. _Everything's fine_, and it's the kind of line that sounds like you're desperately trying to convince someone, that what you're saying is a lie. She'd seen right through it._ It's him, isn't it? It's Brendan. _It was, but not in the way she thought, and I'd tried to make her see that he hadn't done anything. He hadn't hurt me, and we hadn't had a row. I think I managed to convince her by the time we ended the call, but you never know with Amy.

Brendan's reading the Bible. It scares me sometimes when he does that. I know it's probably because of the meeting, because it's reminded him of it. He goes to see Father Des sometimes, and I understand, I do - I want him to go, because they get on, those two. But it makes me worry; a lot of what Brendan learnt when he was growing up was from that thing - right and wrong and all of that, and how he thought he should act, keeping everything inside. Sometimes when he reads it, I think he'll believe it again, push me away.

I don't even know if the words are sinking in. He might just be reading it so he doesn't have to talk to me.

"Brendan." I don't want to say anything, but it's stupid, this - we're next to each other, and we're together but we're separate, if that makes sense. There could be miles between us.

He hums in that way he does when he doesn't want to speak.

"Do you think I was a fool, acting the way I did?"

He puts the book down, focuses on me. He's lying over the cover; he's wearing boxers but no t-shirt, and he's covered in the bites which I gave him. He's mine, but there's a distance created by what happened today.

"What do you think?"

That's not an answer.

"Don't know."

"Yeah, you do."

I shrug. "She was being annoying, wasn't she? That girl. She had no right to say what she did."

"No, she didn't."

His agreement spurs me on, adds strength to my words.

"She doesn't even know me, or you. First meeting there and she was already shouting her gob off, saying all sorts. Accusing me of -" I hesitate. What was she accusing me of, exactly? I don't even know. Being weak, not my own person?

"She didn't look in a good way," Brendan says, and the comment's so out of the blue, so entirely not what I was expecting him to say that I stare at him for a few seconds, trying to work out what to say next.

"You're defending her?" It's me doing the accusing now, and I spit the words at him.

"No. But she looked bad, Steven. Anyone could see that."

I'm about to argue with him, tell him that she looked alright to me, remind him of the way she'd dressed up. but then I remember. Her face - it hadn't looked right. She'd been thin, too thin, much thinner than me, and -

And I hadn't noticed these things before, hadn't wanted to notice them. But I do now.

"That doesn't mean that she can just..."

"I know. She was out of line for what she said. But she's not like you. She's not strong like you, not yet."

His words disarm me. _Strong_. I don't feel strong, not always. Not when Brendan was away, when I was broke half the time and moving from flat to flat and trying to erase the memories that were burned into my skin like a scar. I felt like I was dying then.

"Doesn't matter anyway. It's not like I'm ever going to be able to go back." I slouch down in bed, crossing my arms.

"Why not?"

"They're not going to let me, are they?" I'm not going to go through the embarrassment of turning up again, seeing Richard come to the door and tell me I have to leave.

"Fucking hell, Steven. They're not going to bar you after one incident."

"You don't know that. They don't want anyone to cause any trouble, do they?"

"She started it," Brendan says.

"They don't care, do they? I'm going to sound like a five year old if I say that to them."

Brendan says nothing. I think he's going to let it drop, but he sighs and shifts in the bed, then reaches over and takes my face in both his hands. His thumb smooths over my cheek.

"They're not going to give up on you. I'm not going to give up on you."

"What are you on about?" I wriggle until I'm free and he's no longer touching me. He breaks away reluctantly, his gaze still on me.

"You're going back next week." He says it calmly, like it's not up for discussion.

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are. This is good for you. These people - they're good for you."

"Even that snotty nosed git?"

"Maybe not her," Brendan concedes, "but Richard, and the others - you want them in your life. I know you do."

He's right. Fuck him. He's right.

"I'll see." It's not much, but it seems to please him. He leans over to kiss me, but I evade his mouth, sealing my lips together in a tight line.

"Turn the light off."

::::::

He's asleep, but I'm not. I'm usually flat out straight away these days, but not tonight. He's made me think, the bastard, and now I can't stop.

I think about my life without him, the things that I've been blocking out. I can go to these meetings, and I can talk about the fuck ups, the things I did wrong, but there's a lot I don't say. I think the people there think that it's because of my mum, because of her dying, and because of Terry - I told them a bit about what he did to me, and they all looked sympathetic, like things were clicking into place, like me taking drugs suddenly made sense to them. I couldn't go back on it after that. I couldn't tell them that I killed my mum, and I couldn't tell them that going to Finn's trial with John Paul made me think of...it made me think of the past, and what I'd found out more than a year ago when Brendan had sat opposite me in Chez Chez, when he told me about when he was eight years old. Eight years old. Leah was only a few years younger back then.

I couldn't tell anyone about Brendan. I couldn't tell John Paul about him, because it wasn't my secret to tell, and I'd rather die than betray him like that. I tried to be there for him, tried to go to court, tried to listen when they read out the evidence, and I hated what Finn had done to him, I really did, but in the back of my mind there was always this voice; Brendan's voice, telling me that he'd been ashamed his whole life, and that I deserved a better version of him. I thought of him sitting in a prison cell, still ashamed, and still thinking that I deserved better.

I'm angry with him. I hate him - because I love him, more than anyone, more than anything, and he did that to me. He said goodbye, and he kept me away, and even though I'm lying next to him in this bed, and he's my husband and I would jump in front of a lion for him - even with all that, I still hate him.

I shake him awake. I'm being rough and I don't care, and I roll onto him and kiss him, but it doesn't feel like kissing - it feels like biting, and it feels like I'm trying to make his skin bleed. I can feel him waking up, can see him blinking in the darkness and working out what I'm trying to do, and my hand works its way downwards so that it's in his pants, and I'm making him hard.

He kisses me, but he's still confused. I went to bed being cold to him, and I'm still being cold to him, but the way I'm kissing him and touching him and wanting him inside me, it's messing with his head.

It makes me laugh when he tries to be gentle with me. He kisses me softly, not even using his tongue, and his hands are on my body like he's wanting to protect it. I don't want protecting, not from him, and I grip his arms and score my nails down his skin. He lets out an _Ow_ and winces, and I say sorry because even though it was what I wanted to do, hurting him hurts me too.

The light's still not on. We're both fumbling in the dark, reaching for each other. He makes a clumsy grab for the lube in the drawer beside the bed, and I drop my underwear and vest on the floor, and my socks too. I'm holding him down: I've got both my hands pinned to his chest, and he's starting to enjoy it now; the coldness from my expression must be gone, because he's smiling up at me, and it's visible even in the blackness of the room.

Something happens to my voice when he fingers me. I'm not saying anything anymore, not telling him to hurry up or telling him to kiss me harder. I listen to myself groaning, and even though we're alone in the flat, I bury my face into Brendan's neck to drown the sound out. I'm ready now, but he doesn't care - he doesn't pull his fingers out, and he's adding more lube, and with one hand he's fucking me with his fingers and with the other he's tugging on my dick, and I'm hard enough to burst.

I get into position to ride him. I'm slippery with lube but it still hurts when I enter him, before I move my pelvis and sink down and something connects, something makes me cry out and makes him cry out too. I wish I'd turned the light on; I want to see him, want to see his face clearly, but there's no way I'm getting off him now to reach for the light switch. I stop moving on him and lean forward, kiss him, breath into his mouth. He starts rocking into me from below, thrusting his hips up, his cock coming into me quickly, and my heart's racing.

"You gonna come?" His voice sounds different; I think only I hear his voice like this.

"Yeah."

I yelp when he pushes me off him, holding his dick and taking it out of me.

"What are you -"

"Get on your knees."

I follow his instruction, follow it because there's tension sparking through my body now, and I'd follow him to hell if he asked me to.

I face the wall, holding onto the pillow that's under me as I feel Brendan's hands travel down my back and towards my bum. It tickles; his touch is light, barely there, and I wait for the moment when I'll feel his cock nudging against my rim again; he must know how much I want it, because he doesn't tease me, not this time. He pushes into me, goes in so deeply that I feel like the breath is being forced out of me, and all I can hear is the sound of both of us panting. He's holding onto my shoulders to guide him.

I come. I think that he'll want to come inside me too, but tonight he wants me to suck him off. I muster up enough energy to climb off him. I want to see him for this. I switch the light on, and for a moment it's like we're both blinded by it, Brendan swearing and blinking rapidly. We adjust to it, and I'm in his arms and crouching down, kissing his belly, hand around the root of him. He's wet already, pre-cum at the slit, and I massage my tongue around the head of his cock before taking it into my mouth. I deep throat him, swallow him down when he comes.

Brendan collapses onto the pillow, motioning for me to lie in his arms. He doesn't ask me why I just did that, what it was all about, and I'm grateful. I don't know how to explain it; how to tell him that right then, I needed him. I needed him to block out the old Ste, the one who was invading my mind and taking over.

::::::

_Three years ago _

"Ste?"

"Mmm?" I'm cooking dinner for us. It's been a while since I've done this; it's been takeaways and leftovers from The Hutch mainly, but this is our anniversary, and it's meant to be special.

John Paul walks into the kitchen, holding up a stack of letters. It takes me a moment to understand what they are, and when I do I rush over to him, snatch them out of his grasp.

"Ste!" He's almost shouting, staring at me in alarm.

"Where did you get those from?" I already know the answer; I keep them under my bed in a box. I've always kept them there, safe from anyone else.

"I found them when I was putting some stuff away."

I'm about to ask him what stuff and what he's doing digging around in my room, but then I remember: I said he could. I said he could make some space for his own things for when he sleeps over for the night. I didn't think - I didn't fucking _think_ about him finding the box, the letters.

"Did you look at them?" My voice is raised. I feel hot all over, waiting for his answer.

"Ste -" John Paul tries to move past me, but I won't let him.

"No. Come on, tell me. Did you read them?"

He pushes me aside, and it's then that I realise that the hob's still on. John Paul switches it off. The person who was making that dinner seems distant from me now; I've forgotten all about our planned night in together.

"Are you trying to put the whole house up in flames?"

"I was going to turn it off." I hold onto the letters tightly, trying to work out if they've been opened and read, but it's impossible to know. I've read them too many times myself to see if they're more worn.

John Paul turns to me, leaning his back against the countertop. He's made an effort for tonight; new shirt, new jeans, his hair styled back.

"Were you ever going to tell me about them?"

It sounds like I'm being accused of something.

"What?"

"About the letters. About Brendan."

I laugh like I can't believe what I'm hearing.

"I wrote them ages ago." It's not a complete lie; I wrote _some_ of them ages ago, back when he was first sent down. After he didn't reply to the first few, I stopped sending them. It seemed pointless to spend all that time - to check the spelling, to try and write neatly, to not seem like an idiot - when he wasn't even going to bother to read them and write back. So I kept them for myself, untidy with as many errors as I liked. I don't know why I continued to write them - it was pointless, but it made me feel better. It felt like I was talking to him, like he could hear me.

There are no dates on any of them, so John Paul won't know if I'm telling the truth or not.

"Really?"

"Yes." My mind rushes: I try and think what I've written in them, if anything will give away the fact that some are as new as two days ago.

"Why did you keep them?"

"Listen, right -" I'm not going to stand here and listen to his questions anymore, to feel like I've done something wrong. They were meant to be private, not for him to snoop around and read, and I haven't cheated, have I?

"I didn't want to read them, Ste. But I saw them, and I..."

"You couldn't help yourself."

He walks closer to me. I think he's going to kiss me, and for a second I look away, try and avoid his mouth. I don't want to kiss him, not right now, but he doesn't try.

"You don't still...I mean, you and Brendan..."

"No." My voice is firm, defiant. "No. 'Course not. Never."

"Right." He seems more sure of himself. "Right. So you don't need to keep them, do you? I mean, if they were written years ago, and Brendan's never going to read them, and you don't still...we can get rid of them, can't we?"

I swallow, look at him. "Yeah. Yeah, we can."

He smiles. "Go on then." He nods towards the bin, and I think_ now? He wants me to do this now? _

"Let's have our dinner first. It's going to go cold." I look towards the cooker, wish that I was still there, that none of this conversation had happened.

But he's sulking. He's hurt - _I've_ hurt him. He doesn't deserve that, not after everything that's happened to him.

"Okay then." Okay. I walk over to the bin, open the lid, throw the letters into it. When I turn back to John Paul, I don't even know what my face looks like. "Let's have some food, yeah?"

I turn the hob back on, make dinner for us. We eat and we talk, and we fuck and fall asleep together, and when I wake up in the early hours while he's still in bed, I take the letters out of the bin and move them somewhere safe.


	3. Chapter 3

I didn't know if the kids would remember him. I thought maybe their memories would be distorted by all the people who had come into my life - the _men_: Doug, John Paul, Amy's new bloke. I'd told Amy that she couldn't blame me; she'd had Lee and Ally, and now Simon was sniffing around my kids, trying to be their new dad. If they were confused, then it wasn't all my fault.

Didn't stop me from feeling guilty though. I wanted them to have some stability, and because of me they'd had the opposite. When Brendan came back, he thought that me not wanting him to see the kids was because I was scared of him, ashamed of him. How could I explain to him that I was worried that they wouldn't recognise them? That those months we had together would be forgotten in their heads, even though they'd been a permanent thought in mine.

The first time Leah and Lucas saw him again, I think I was more nervous than he was. I watched them all, and I was talking - talking too much, I think - about anything that came to me, because the idea of there being silence, of the kids staring up at a stranger - it would have destroyed Brendan. Destroyed us both.

Leah came towards him first. Sometimes I think she's fearless; she's had to be, the things she's been through already. She's learnt how to be tough, and she didn't look frightened, even when faced with Brendan towering over her, beard unkempt, his shoulders more broad than I'd ever seen them, his arms almost tearing out of his jacket they were so big now. Brendan crouched down to her level, and something struck me - a memory over four years ago then: Brendan coming round on Christmas Eve just after we'd got together properly. He'd been carrying a cuddly toy, a polar bear with a tiara, and it should have looked ridiculous in his arms, but somehow it didn't, and he lowered his body and gave it to my daughter, and it felt like we were a family, all of us.

He didn't have a gift for Leah this time. He'd looked at her for a moment, and it was like he was waiting to see if she remembered. Lucas kept his distance; he looked hesitant, curious, and when Brendan stared at him he ran towards me, hiding behind my legs.

Leah was quicker to remember. Things were blurry; she knew his name, and she knew that he'd come back for me, and she made fun of his moustache in a way that made me laugh and helped to ease some of the tension. Lucas was younger than she was when Brendan had been around, and it was only when Brendan read him a bedtime story that he seemed to remember something; I saw him visibly relax in a way that he never would have done with someone he thought was a stranger.

We see them every week now. I thought it would take longer for things to go back to normal, to feel like it was natural, the four of us together again. But it didn't - it felt like that almost from the start, like something that I'd lost was clicking back into place. The kids noticed it: Leah came to me one morning in the kitchen, sitting in my lap and stealing some toast from me. _You're happy again, daddy. _I didn't like it when she said that. She should have never known any different, never should have seen what my life without Brendan had become. But she wasn't wrong; I was happy again. She was more perceptive than I'd given her credit for.

We have to be careful when they stay over, me and Bren. A couple of times the kids nearly walked in on us, and I didn't think the play fighting excuse would work a second time. We ended up getting a lock fixed, but some days that doesn't deter the kids; days like today.

There's a banging at the door, waking us. I can feel Brendan stirring beside me, and I lift the covers up, remember that we went to bed in our pyjamas, but they'd come off halfway through the night when he'd woken up, and his shifting in bed had woken me too. Brendan had been warm and I'd felt his tongue slip into my mouth when he'd kissed me. It had seemed a shame to waste it, and our pyjamas had ended up in a heap on the floor.

"Pass me my shirt, won't you?" Brendan says, and I remember that somehow his clothes ended up on my side. I reach down, nearly falling out of bed making a grab for them, only stopped by him holding onto me round the waist, his touch firm.

We get dressed hastily, and a glance in the mirror reveals that my hair's sticking out at odd angles. I turn round, give Brendan a quick inspection.

"Put that away." I nod towards the bottle of lube on the bedside table, and he gives me a smile as he stashes it out of sight.

Lucas is outside the door. He crosses his arms like we've left him waiting for ever, then steps inside the room.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," I say hastily, then realise that I don't have to be on edge around my son. He can't be aware of anything, because he accepts my answer and then rushes to the bed and bounces on it, landing in the space beside Brendan on the pillow. Brendan messes with his hair.

"Is Leah up?" I pull my dressing gown on, mentally going through what needs to be done today: breakfast for the kids, see if they have any homework to be done, take them to the park maybe, see a film tonight if they fancy it. It's strange, these plans: it's strange to have any, for my life to be filled with so much. I wonder if I'll ever stop remembering what it was like to have nothing.

"Yeah." Lucas is distracted, making a grab for Brendan's cross that's lying over his t-shirt, his hands clasping around it, swinging it back and forth.

"Be careful with that," I say.

"Don't worry about it, Steven."

He must be getting soft. I saw a new staff member they'd hired at Chez Chez touching it, and she was only admiring it but Brendan had shaken it out of her hold, had called it _delicate_. I never should have told him the story, never should have told him that it was one of the only things that was recovered from the fire in my flat. It's like he thinks it was a sign, a sign that he was going to come back to me, and he can't risk anything happening to it.

He's happy enough to let Lucas play with it though. I watch them together, and I think how it's one of those moments where I should really be grabbing a camera, capturing it - but if I do that then I might miss it myself.

"What?" Brendan's noticed me staring.

"Nothing. I'll put the breakfast on."

::::::

We've got the day off together. I'd forgotten that Brendan had booked it off months ago, and Tony's not expecting me at the restaurant. It's boiling outside, the kind of weather that makes you feel like you're peeling your clothes off at the end of the day, like they're sticking to you. When we go to the supermarket the chocolate bars have already melted by the time we come home; I have to quickly put them into the freezer, but they've already begun to be molded into a different shape.

"Shit."

"Don't worry about it." Brendan's sipping on a beer. We've moved the fan into the kitchen, and it's blowing his hair in different directions. He looks like something out of a film. He's wearing shorts. _Shorts_. I've never seen him in shorts, not even last summer when the pavement was hot enough to burn your feet if you went out without shoes.

"When did you get those?" I say, and I play with the fabric, try not to smile so he won't think I'm making fun of him.

"Other day." His words are more like a grunt. I think he's embarrassed. "Why?" He sounds self conscious.

"They're nice, aren't they?" Maybe they're already growing on me; they show his legs off. I can see his muscles, and the hair covering his legs is thick and dark.

"Are they?"

"Yeah." I step closer to him, put my arms around him, touch my knees against his knees. "Cute."

He grimaces, and I laugh. He tries to escape from my hold.

"Where you going?" I can smell his aftershave now, and I don't want him to leave.

"To get changed." He says it like it's obvious.

"Aw, I'm only joking." I reach down and pinch his shorts. "I quite like 'em. Really." I move my hands round, squeeze his bum, feel him leaning into me, staring at my mouth. He does that a lot; sometimes when he's meant to be looking at my eyes, he's looking there instead.

"What else am I meant to wear? Fucking thirty degrees outside. Want me to walk around naked?"

"Is that a serious question?" My hands are in his waistband now.

"With children present?" He reminds me.

"Oh yeah." I laugh the laugh that he always teases me for. "Speaking of the kids, what do you want to do today? They're dying to get out, go to the park. But if you don't want to go -"

"Why wouldn't I want to go?"

"Just thought maybe you'd be tired, working all week. Might not want to be surrounded by screaming kids."

I try not to influence him. It wouldn't be fair for me to tell him how much I want him to come with us. It's fine on my own - because I'm not _alone_ alone, am I? I'll have Leah and Lucas, but with Brendan there -

With Brendan there, it makes it better. He makes it better.

"I don't mind." He shrugs like he really doesn't, like the thought hadn't occurred to him, and for a moment I don't know what to say. I can feel myself smiling.

I kiss him, just a small one on the side of his mouth. I get more of his tache than his lips.

"I'll go and get dressed then." I'm still in my dressing gown, and I'm sweating in it.

We're both in our shorts now, and vests more than t-shirts. I grab a pair of sunglasses and so does Brendan, and I feel proud walking next to him. People stare at him as they pass him - not just today, not just now. I see it all the time, everywhere we go. He's gorgeous and he knows it.

He's got Leah's hand and I've got Lucas's, and Leah's chatting away in the way she always does. Brendan's keeping up though; he's good talking to her. He makes her laugh, keeps her entertained, and when we reach the park entrance and she races ahead, he follows her to keep her within distance.

"Can I have an ice cream?" Lucas is swinging my hand, looking longingly at the ice cream stand.

"We haven't even had lunch yet. Come on, let's go and find Brendan and your sister."

It takes me a moment to find them, and when I do Leah's sitting on Brendan's shoulders, and he's holding her like she's nothing.

The cafe's outside, and we find a table. Brendan asks us all what we want, and when I try and give him money he won't take it.

"No, go on. You can't be paying for stuff all the time." I'm sliding over a twenty and I try and press it into his palm, but he's not backing down. He acts like he hasn't heard me, then goes inside to order.

I tut, staring at Brendan on the opposite side of the glass where he's queuing. All he's doing is standing in line, moving forward every now and then when someone's been served, but - I can't explain it, it's like it hits me. It hits me that my husband's in there, and he's come to the park with me and my kids - _our_ kids - and we're having lunch like any other family. It should feel strange after everything that's happened, but it doesn't. It feels like any other ending would have been strange.

Brendan comes out again with our beers and some juice for the kids, and they sip at them while we wait for our food.

"Cheers," I say, and me and Bren clink bottles. They've given us glasses to pour them into, but we prefer to drink straight from the bottle, and mine's cold; I can see an imprint of my hand on the bottle when I hold it, and water trickles down as I drink. It tastes even better with the sun out.

Brendan leans back in his chair. The light's directly on him, showing every line on his face. He's closing his eyes, and he looks like there's nowhere he'd rather be. I think about all the time he spent in prison, all those years, and how he must have been in the dark for the most of it. I know what it's like in there - there are artificial lights obviously, and you get time for exercise in the grounds a bit, but it's nothing. It's not freedom. It's not the same as being outside. It's good to see him in the open air.

When the food comes we're starving. Leah and Lucas dig into their sandwiches. Me and Brendan have gone for burgers. I stare at him through narrowed eyes when he nicks one of my chips.

"Haven't you got enough of your own?" I nod at his still full plate.

"I'm a growing man, Steven. I eat more than you."

"Yeah, only 'cause you steal my food half the time."

He ignores me, dipping the stolen chip in ketchup and eating it slowly, staring at me.

"Stop arguing," Leah says, and she's so matter of fact with it that me and Brendan laugh.

"We're not arguing, sweetheart."

"Brendan's just a thief, that's all."

For a second I think Brendan's going to throw a chip at me, but then he passes me one, puts it on my plate.

"Better?"

I grab the salt shaker, pour some on, then some ketchup.

"Better," I say, popping it into my mouth in one. I must have some ketchup on my lips, because the next thing I know Brendan's wiping around my mouth with his thumb.

I forget that there's anyone else around. Or maybe I just don't care, because it's a shock when I see the couple behind us staring our way. They're older than us, maybe by about ten years or so, and I can see the disapproval in their eyes. They must have seen Brendan touch me, or maybe it's just how we are together; Tony once told me that it was obvious we're together just by how we act. Everyone in the village knows that we're married, and if they don't like it then they know they've got Brendan to deal with. But here, going into Chester, being with people we don't know - it's different.

Brendan notices where I'm looking. He turns around in his seat, and the couple look away hurriedly, but still not quickly enough.

I think Brendan's going to say something. I grip his hand on the table, and then realise I'm probably just making things worse; I take it away, and it's then that he glances back at me.

"Why did you take it away?" His voice is measured, but I know him - I know he's struggling to control it.

"What?"

"Your hand? Why did you take it away?"

"I thought..."

"Put it back." He sounds firm, angry almost. He's silent a moment, and when he speaks again his voice is softer. "If you want."

I put it back, my hand on top of his. The kids are eating either side of us, oblivious. Brendan looks at the couple again, and I'm about to say something, _Brendan, don't_, but I wait; he still isn't speaking. I can see the man staring at us from the corner of his eyes, making a bad job of pretending he's not looking. Brendan doesn't stop staring.

"Brendan..." I'm worried they're going to say something, something that's going to scare him off. I should have known that we couldn't have a whole day together without something happening to disturb it. What if the man says something and Brendan runs away? What if he leaves me here?

My hand's still on his, but he's still not looking at me.

I hear the sound of a chair being scraped back, and when I look up the couple are on their feet. My heart's hammering - I don't care what they say, not to me, but I do care what the kids hear, and what Brendan does. I feel like I'm ready to fight.

They give us a passing glance as they leave. I release a breath; that's it. That's all. They're going.

Brendan turns back to the table. He looks satisfied; takes a sip of beer, then picks up his burger and takes a bite.

"Food okay, kids?" He asks Leah and Lucas, and it's like nothing's happened.

::::::

We find a shaded spot by a tree and use our jumpers as something to lie on, untying them from around our waists. We've all got ice creams, and it's so warm that they drip down our fingers in minutes. Leah gets some on her dress and starts to complain, and I spend ten minutes with her in the loos trying to get the stain off. She makes me buy her another one when we come out again; she wasted precious ice cream, apparently. I agree to get her one as long as her and Lucas share - I can already predict the headache that'll happen if I don't.

The kids are eating them under the tree now, and me and Brendan have got ours.

"Why do you always go for that one?" I nod at his ice cream. I can't see why anyone wouldn't get chocolate.

"Mint chocolate chip. It's a classic." It's trickling down his fingers, and he has to lick them to get the ice cream off. It's distracting; he seems to take for ever to get them clean, his tongue weaving in and out.

In the time that I've looked at him, my own ice cream has begun to melt.

"Fuck." I glance quickly at the kids, hoping they haven't heard. "You got a tissue?"

"Just lick it," Brendan says.

"It's on my wrist and everything."

"So?" He looks at me like I'm being silly, so I do as he says; dip down and lick the ice cream, feeling it sticking to the hairs on my wrist. When I look up again, his eyes are fixed on me.

It's almost a relief when we finish them and lie back on the grass. I keep an eye on the kids - they're running around near us, and every half hour I call them back, see if they're burning and reapply suncream if I think they might be.

"Overprotective." Brendan smiles at me.

"Don't want them returning to Amy looking like lobsters, do I?" I knows I shouldn't feel the need to impress her, but I do. I want her to know that Leah and Lucas are safe, that nothing's ever going to happen to them. It's not just her worrying about Brendan; it's me. She couldn't trust them around me, and it kills me to know it.

"You should see Declan and Paddy when they've been in the sun."

"Irish skin, eh?' I laugh. "They were alright when we went to Disneyland though, weren't they?"

"Yeah, after they'd smothered themselves in factor fifty."

He's not wrong; I remember them both looking like ghosts because of how much suncream they'd applied. I look at Brendan: he doesn't look like a ghost, or burnt. Our legs are together, lying side by side, and his are paler than mine, but his arms are almost golden, as much as I've ever seen them.

I prop myself up on one elbow, stare at him.

"We should go away again soon." Maybe it's the weather that's making me think about it, or maybe it's talking about when we all went to Disneyland a year ago, but I'm thinking of beaches and hotels and pools and what Brendan might look like with a tan.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Somewhere like...I don't know, Rome, or Italy. Or maybe we could go to Paris - most romantic place in the world, Bren." I give him a nudge, think maybe I'm pushing my luck, but he doesn't look like he's completely hating the idea.

"I thought Dublin was the most romantic place in the world?" He raises an eyebrows at me.

"I meant _second_ most romantic, didn't I. Anyway, what do you think? Maybe it could just be us - Amy could take the kids."

"Reckon you'd get the time off work?"

"I think so." It's the perk of having a friend as a boss. "And you could get some time off, couldn't you? I mean you own the place. It'll be easy, won't it?"

"Don't know about easy, Steven." He's playing with a strand of grass, twirling it around his fingers. "Gotta square things up at the club first. Get someone in charge who knows how to manage the books. I can't just leave anyone running the place."

"Right." I feel slightly deflated. "It was just an idea."

"Shouldn't be too hard though. As long as I get people in to cover the shifts. How long would you want to go for?"

"A week, two weeks." Him asking me questions is making me hope, and I'm planning things in my head already; where we'll go, what we'll do, how we'll have all that time to ourselves.

"Pick where you want to go and choose a date. I'll sort it."

"You will?" I think my mouth's hanging open.

"Been a while since we had a holiday, hasn't it?" He's being casual about it, but I know that he knows how much this means to me. I don't care that we're in a park and there are dozens of people around us. I don't care that that couple looked at us earlier like we were doing something wrong. I lean forward and kiss him, and I feel him respond; he's holding the back of my head, and he's making the kiss deeper. I can taste mint chocolate chip on his tongue.

When we stop kissing, I don't think he even looks around to see if anyone's watching us. I don't think he cares.

"And you'll tell Richard, won't you?"

I feel the smile drop from my face.

"What?" It takes my brain a moment to catch up. I know who Richard is - I think I even know what Brendan's getting at, but I don't want to. I don't want to know.

"About going away." Brendan's staring at me levelly, and I wonder why he had to do this - why _now_, when everything was going so well?

"Why should I tell him anything?" I can hear the defensive edge to my voice. I stare at Leah and Lucas running around on the grass, and I think how much they've been through and the things they've seen, but they're still happy - they still haven't reached the point where life's robbed them of that. Everything in their world is still simple. I envy them. It's ugly and I shouldn't be feeling that way about my own children, but I do.

"He'll wonder where you are when you don't come to meetings."

"I don't have to tell him. People drop out all the time."

"You're dropping out now?"

I feel like this is an inquisition. The heat suddenly feels too glaring, too intense, like it's switched from pleasure to pain.

"I told you I'm not going back." I say it quietly, because if I say it any louder than I might lose the last traces of control I have. Richard doesn't belong here, not in this day and in this place, and the reminder of the meetings - of my past - is making me feel like the walls are closing in.

"I thought you just needed time."

I look at him. _Glare_ might be more appropriate.

"So you didn't believe me when I told you that that was it? You thought I was lying?"

"Not lying, no." Brendan's rushing to get his words out. He's sitting up now, same as me, because this conversation isn't the kind I want to have lying down on the grass; it feels like we shouldn't be talking about this at all when everywhere around us people are chatting, laughing, enjoying themselves.

"Then what?" I'm giving him a hard time and he doesn't deserve it - I _know_ he doesn't deserve it, but the thought of going back to that place is making me panic.

"I just thought you needed a few days to think."

I shake my head, laugh like I can't believe what he's telling me.

"I'm not ever going back there again, right? Get the message?" I stand up, reach for my jumper and then shout out to the kids, telling them we're going.

"Steven -" I can see Brendan fighting to keep pace with me. He'd usually have no trouble, but I've surprised him, and he's trailing behind.

"I'll see you at home." I don't look back to see if he's following.

::::::

Once the kids are settled back at the flat, I jump in the shower. It's a relief to feel the cool water on my skin; I turn the cold on full blast, standing under the shower head until I begin to shiver and feel the stickiness from the day in the heat subside.

I'm aware of a knock on the bathroom door. It's strange how I can recongise a knock, can know who it is without having to see.

"I'm having a shower," I call pointlessly - Brendan must be able to hear the pump going and the sound of the water.

"Can I come in?" His voice is soft, vulnerable. I don't know if he's putting it on or if it's real, but it's not something I can listen to and not respond to. I try; I try and close my eyes and carry on washing my hair, but I'm aware that he's still standing outside the door, even though there's no sound of movement.

I give up trying to shut him out. I step out of the shower, unlock the door then get back in again. The shower's foggy with steam, but I can see the outline of Brendan on the other side. He's still for a moment, then he starts stripping off, bundling his clothes into a heap on the floor before opening the shower door, getting in with me. I make room for him, but I don't touch him; I concentrate on washing myself, on the mechanical nature of it: _pick up soap, put soap here, rinse soap, put shampoo in hair... _I repeat it to myself in my head, but I feel his body inches away from me, naked and close and waiting for me to tell him that it's okay.

I can't tell him that, because I don't know if it is. I don't know if _I'm_ okay - I thought I was, but there are these things - these flashes of memories of when I was away from him, and they're infecting my life now, bleeding into it. I used to think that when you were happy, that's all there would be: happiness, but I'm happier than I've ever been now, and there are still these other reminders, these things that are stopping me, that make me feel like I'm standing still.

"Talk to me." I don't think that's all he's asking; I think he's asking me to love him, to trust him, and I do - _I do_ - but sometimes I wonder how he can love me.

I act like I can't hear over the sound of the water, and I shout at him _"What?"_ to bide myself time. I think I'll get it, but then all sound is cut off. He's turned off the water, and the silence is a shock.

"What are you -"

"Talk to me," he says again. He makes it impossible for me to look away; he takes my face in his hands, and if I turn away from him now, I know how hurt he'll be.

"About what?" I'm not acting now - I don't know what he wants me to say. There's so much. Too much.

"You're scared, aren't you? Of going back there, of facing them?"

I don't need to ask him what he's on about. I do need to deny it though.

"I'm not scared."

"We all get scared."

"You don't," I say, but then I think how untrue that is. I've seen Brendan scared, seen him terrified, but sometimes it still seems like something out of a dream; Brendan seems too strong to be scared.

He stares at me, incredulous. I wonder when he stopped denying that he gets afraid too; I wonder why he stopped.

I turn the water back on, try to make it drown everything out, but it doesn't work; Brendan's chest to chest with me now. We're standing in the corner of the shower, and when he leans into me and speaks in my ear, I can hear every word he's saying.

"It's okay." He's stroking my hair and trying to calm me, but being comforted like this, it's making things worse. It's making me feel like I'm falling apart, and I lean into his chest so he won't see it. I feel like I'm gasping rather than crying, and I hear myself hiccup. Brendan strokes me harder. "I'm here now. It's okay."

He won't be able to tell what's water and what's my tears. They mix together, and it's only when Brendan kisses my eyelids and eyelashes that I think he tastes the saltiness on them. He draws back to look at me, and I wait for the questioning to start again, but maybe he knows I'm not ready for it, not yet.

My nose is running. I can feel it. He's seen the best of me and the worst of me, but I'm still embarrassed for him to see me like this now. I try and turn away, to wipe my nose with the back of my hand before he notices, but he's noticed already; he wipes it himself then kisses me, and it feels like he's trying to kiss everything else away along with it, everything I'm feeling, everything I've felt since he mentioned Richard. Everything I've felt since I lost him, before he came back to me.

He sinks to his knees. I know what he's about to do, and I feel the anticipation along with the storm in my head. I'm still crying, and I'm not hard - I don't think I'll be able to get hard, not when I'm feeling like this - but when Brendan takes my cock in his hand and gives it a few rough strokes, I feel like my head begins to clear, like the bad stuff's beginning to force its way out. I don't close my eyes, and I don't stop looking down at him; if I do then I might start thinking about other things again. He's anchoring me to the ground, making me stay with him here in this life, this one we've created together, and I don't want to lose that.

My knees feel like they're giving in. Brendan must notice, because he puts an arm behind my thighs and holds me there, keeps me steady. Sometimes he doesn't look at me when he's giving me head, not till the end; he's too focused on what he's doing to me with his hands and mouth and tongue, but sometimes - like today - he looks at me as he's sucking me. After the first few strokes he doesn't use his hands; they're like dead weights by his side, and he angles his mouth and takes me in. I can hear myself whimper, am aware of how I'm raising my hips in his direction, making my cock slide into his mouth easier. He doesn't gag, not once.

We need a bigger shower. It's fine if there's one of us in here, but two's stretching it, and when we collapse onto the floor of it and I climb into his lap, his legs don't have much of a space to stretch out.

"You alright?" I ask. He's already banged his knee against a tile. His answer is a hot tongued kiss.

I climb to my feet again so he can get me ready with his tongue. I'm standing over him as he kneels up, and I spread my cheeks for him so he can lick me out easier. I haven't done this with anyone else but him. He hasn't had this done to him by anyone else but me. All that other stuff, it used to bother me - the men he'd been with, the ones he'd had in his bed. But none of them have him like this, do they? They don't get to come home from work and see him curled up on the sofa watching tv. They don't get to see him reading their kids a bed time story. They don't get to see him behind the bar, ordering people about and being in charge, and know that he's theirs. They don't get to hear him say I love you.

His stubble tickles. I know that it's made the cheeks of my bum red. At first I laugh, but then I stop laughing because Brendan licks into me, and it feels like he's going deeper and deeper, deeper than you'd think's possible. His cock looks like it's straining, but he gives me some attention first; he licks my hole until I can't take much more, and I shake free of his hold and get on my knees with him, crawling closer again, winding my arms around his neck, sinking down onto his cock.

My tears have dried on my face.

I think I'm going to ride him hard, but when he's inside me I change my mind. When I'm moving on him slowly I get to kiss him more, and that's what I'm doing - I'm kissing him wherever I can reach, from his jaw to his chin where his beard is, to his earlobe to his fingers, which I take into my mouth and suck. It's cutting off my noises, and he's louder than I am; he's swearing and groaning low in his throat, and the hand that's not in my mouth is knocking against the tile on the wall, not enough to bruise but enough to sting. Sometimes I think our neighbours look at us funny. Sometimes I think I know why.

I want the feeling when I come to last. I want it to linger, to never stop; Brendan comes too, seconds after I do, and we reach for the shower head and wash ourselves off, cum swirling down the plughole. The feeling lasts when I kiss him afterwards, and it lasts when he wraps a towel around me, securing it around my waist. It lasts when we're in our room getting dressed, and it lasts when we're playing with the kids.

But it creeps back in. It creeps back in when I look at the calendar and see a date circled: my next meeting with Richard. Even if I do go there and talk to them, it's not the same as talking to Brendan, is it? Brendan knows things - about me and Doug, about me and John Paul, about my mum and what I helped her do. About me getting help for...the things I got help for. But he doesn't know that everyday I wake up and I expect him not to be there. He doesn't know how close I came to...

He doesn't know that a week before he was released, I'd planned to kill myself.

::::::

_Three years ago_

I think about calling her. I come close to dialling her number, but I back out at the last second.

It's been a few weeks since John Paul told me he was raped.

I remember exactly what he said when he first told me. He was saying these things - how he'd felt dirty and ashamed. _Ashamed_. It was when he said that that I knew, even though he couldn't say the words, could only nod and say _yes_ when I asked him.

I'm going to see him today. I need to find out who it was, who hurt him. I didn't get a chance last time. Last time, when I should have stopped...when I should have _done_ something, the person was already dead. I can't let that happen again.

I don't know why I'm thinking about him, about the man I shouldn't be thinking of. I try and only think about him at night - that's my rule, the one time of day when I allow myself to drift off and remember. That's when I write the letters to him, the letters that I never send. I make sure I hide them away properly now, so John Paul can't find them. I've got a locker at The Hutch where I keep them, but they're stacking up; one day they won't be able to fit there. I know I should stop writing them.

Maybe if I had a grave I could visit it would make it easier. I can go and see Doug whenever I want, but there's nowhere I can go to see Brendan. That's what happens when someone you love disappears from your life, and they become a ghost - they're not dead, but they're not really alive either. I don't get to touch him, feel him, hear him, see him. I can't mourn, can I? I can just exist.

But then I think of what would happen if I knew he was dead - if I knew that he wasn't able to breathe anymore, wasn't able to say anything, wasn't able to smile. And it makes me want to be dead too.

There is one thing I can do. I can call her: Cheryl. I can call Cheryl.

I haven't spoken to her in months. I went to visit her and Nate back when it all first happened, when Brendan was sent to prison. I just wanted to stay with someone who would understand, and it was nice at first to get away from it all; the staring faces of people in the village, and all the questions I knew they were dying to ask. Everywhere reminded me of Brendan, and I thought going out into the country would take my mind off it. It did, for a bit, but then I saw how happy Cheryl was, and all I could think about was how that should have been me and Brendan. We should have been that happy, and we would have been if she hadn't shot her dad.

I still checked in with her a bit after that, just to find out how she was. But I think talking to me hurt her too. I could hear it in her voice, the way that she tried to end the phone call as quickly as possible. Talking to me made her think of him. At first I just thought she didn't want to feel guilty, but then I realised - she was going to feel guilty whether she talked to me or not. Nothing I did would change that. I thought she had been the lucky one, the free one, but the way she acted, it was like she was in a cage too.

She's the only one who knows. Her and Nate, they're the only people who...they know what Seamus did, know what he put Brendan through, and I just think that maybe if I...

The crazy thing is, as much as it used to hurt me when Brendan hit me, it didn't hurt half as much as when he told me about what his dad did to him. I don't think people would understand that. Maybe not even Cheryl. They'd think I was sick for saying something like that. Brainwashed by him. His victim.

I don't think I've ever felt so alone in my whole life.

I can't talk about him, see? There are people living here now who don't even know him, who never even met him, and there are others who don't care either way. They don't miss him. He was never popular, never someone who most people wanted around. They were probably glad to see the back of him, and I know they think I should feel the same.

Things are getting better. I've got a boyfriend now, and maybe I'll get the kids back again soon. I told John Paul I love him, because I do, don't I? He loves me - he cares about me, he wanted me off drugs, he chose me over Danny - and that means something. It has to mean something.

Maybe it's not that kind of love that makes you feel everything all at once. Maybe I don't feel like my heart's pounding in my chest every time I look at him. Maybe every time we sleep together it's not the same as when me and - but it's early days, isn't it? And he's only just getting over what happened to him. And maybe love isn't always like that. Maybe it doesn't always have to feel like you'd kill for the other person, like you'd die for them. That's exhausting, isn't it? I've done that before, and how long can it really last? How long can you go on like that before it destroys you both?

It's better this way. Safer.

But I can't stop thinking about him, and I can't stop wanting to call her, and there still isn't anywhere I can go to say goodbye.


	4. Chapter 4

I shouldn't have told Brendan that Tony's left me in charge.

It's only for a few hours while he takes the twins to a check up, but he didn't ask anyone else, did he? He didn't ask Blessing or one of the other girls. He didn't hire someone else for the day, someone who could mind things. He asked _me_.

I don't know why I tell Brendan. I know he has an early start at the club. It's not like he'll be able to come round and see me, sit at a table and watch me in the kitchen, watch as I organise the staff for the shift. But there's his lunch break; he always has half an hour at least, an hour if it's not a Friday or a Saturday, and I think that maybe, just maybe...

He shows up around one. I know because I'm checking the clock in the kitchen, checking the door too. I know how stupid I must look to anyone who'd be watching me; my neck cranes every time I hear the door opening, every time I feel the draft from outside. Every time it's not him I get back to work, pretend that I was never looking in the first place.

When it's finally him, I brush my uniform down and make my way out of the kitchen.

"Alright?" I say. He's got a suit on, an old one. His shirt's dark blue, makes his eyes look bluer. It's tucked into his black trousers, and he's got a belt on. _Unnecessary_, I think. It makes it more fiddly when I'm trying to get it off him.

"Steven." He looks around the place. He's been here before, plenty of times, but it's like he's admiring it from a new light, a new perspective now that I'm in charge. He looks appreciative. "Got any free tables?"

"Yeah." I nod over at Blessing. She knows the score: she smiles at Brendan, ushers him over to a table. She chooses one that's the closest to the kitchen. The closest to me.

Brendan sits back in his seat. I don't know if he's meaning to provoke, but he does - he's leaning right back, and his trousers are tight, and he looks like his shirt's struggling to contain him. He trimmed his beard this morning. I saw him at the sink, the hair landing there in tufts. He's still stubbly though; I swear with him it's like his hair grows in minutes instead of days. His cheek's soft when I kiss it.

"Careful. You're the boss now. Don't want to be inappropriate." His eyes shine when he looks at me.

"Shut up. Want a drink? Some food?"

"My usual."

"Coming right up."

I think he's going to let me go, but when I turn my back I feel a hand around my waist. I nearly topple over when he pulls me back. For a moment I think I'm going to land in his lap.

"Joining me?" He asks, and he doesn't take his hand away.

"I can't. I've got loads to do here." It's tempting though, this boss position. Tony had given me the speech: don't let it go to my head, remember to treat the place as he'd treat it, he'll be expecting a full report off the staff. He wants me to know that he's still in charge. I don't mind though - I know I'm lucky to have this job after what I did.

"You've got to eat, Steven."

"Maybe later. Let me get your food, yeah?"

I cook for him. There's good chefs here, people who really know their stuff, but they don't know exactly how Brendan likes it, and I do. A few of them give me sideways glances when I grab a spare apron and put it on over my uniform; I could explain to them how Brendan likes his food to be cooked, but they'll think I'm soft, won't they? Looking after my bloke like that. It's easier if I do it myself.

I bring him his burger, ketchup on the side, because he doesn't like it all over his chips. Plenty of salt. Beer to wash it down with. I've given him a bigger portion than we usually serve, but no one else needs to know that, do they?

"Thanks." He's rolling up his sleeves, making a proper thing of it like he's settling down to some fancy three course meal. When he looks up at me, he laughs.

"What?" I say.

"Hello, Casper."

I can feel myself frowning.

"You've got flour on your forehead." He points.

"Oh." I wipe myself down. "Must have got it from the bun. Gone?"

Brendan hums, has already brought his burger to his lips.

I'm aware of someone calling my name. I turn, see Blessing pointing to the line of customers that's gathered by the door, waiting to be shown to their seats.

Weird how you can forget that there are other people in the world.

::::::

Like I said, it was a bad idea.

I think Brendan's going to go after he's finished his lunch, but he comes to the kitchen, knocks on the door.

"Saying goodbye?" I pop my head out. I really haven't got time for this, not now. It's the lunchtime rush and the heat of the hob and the oven's got to me; I feel like I'm working in a sauna.

"Got a second?"

"Not really." I think he'll get the message, will feel the heat coming off me, will sense that I can't stop.

"Leave one of the other boys to do it."

"Brendan, I can't."

"Come on. Place won't collapse without you."

"Bren -" I can hear pots and pans banging behind me, and a sound like a crash.

"Five minutes, Steven. Give me five minutes."

I'm about to argue, but something stops me. Maybe I'm curious, or maybe I know him too well, know what he wants to do.

"Be back in five minutes, guys." No one pays me any attention. They're all too busy trying to get the food served.

I walk through the kitchen, and there's a part of me that knows that I shouldn't be doing this, and there's a part of me that doesn't care. Brendan's leading the way, taking me past the sign that says _staff only_. There's still the distant sound of the restaurant from back here, but it's quieter, and it almost cuts off completely the further we go.

I think he'll want to fuck me in the toilets, but he takes one look in the bathroom and emerges wrinkling his nose, looks like the place offends him. He's staring around the place, trying to find somewhere else. I shouldn't encourage him: I should tell him that we need to go back inside, that Tony's relying on me, even if it is only five minutes like he said.

"There's a garden out back." My voice sounds unlike my own. It sounds like it does when I'm in bed with him, when there's no one else around to hear; kind of soft, private.

"Show me." His voice is soft too.

I walk a short way, open the door that leads to the garden. Garden is an exaggeration - it's more like a small area out back where people go to smoke and catch some air in their breaks.

Brendan steps out, walks up and down like he's inspecting the place.

"Does it have a lock?" He sounds like he's considering it. It makes me feel like there's a spark running through me.

I show him the bolt on the door, watch him grow more interested, watch his eyes widen.

"Let me get the key. Hang on a sec." I run to the office. I almost skid on the way back I'm going so fast. I hold it up to him, and there's a mirror hanging on the back wall where I'm standing, and I see my face. It's like I'm coming alive; my eyes are excited, and my cheeks look flushed. I'm smiling, and when I go outside again he's smiling too. He takes the key from my hand, locks the door.

"You're not going anywhere," he says, and he pockets the key and stalks towards me, backs me against the closed door, looks at me as I shiver under his gaze.

"We've only got five minutes," I remind him, and he gives me this kind of shrug, _I don't care_, and he leans into me. It's crazy, but I can sense him smelling me. He actually _sniffs_ me, inhales me, and he runs his tongue across my neck. I feel powerless, like all I can do is stand back and let it happen, because when he's like this I don't _want_ to do anything. Not right away. Not when I can feel him exploring me. He's tasting my skin, kissing me where layers of clothing don't cover my body, lifting my clothes up where they do. My white shirt is becoming creased from where he's balling it in his fist. I can feel the breeze on my stomach.

There aren't houses back here. There's no sign of life, just me and him, but it doesn't stop me from looking around, seeing if anyone's watching us. I try and work out if there's only one key to this garden, or if Brendan's holding one of many. What if Blessing's got one and she comes looking for me, thinks I've gone out here? What if -

It's hard to worry when Brendan's on his knees in front of me. He can read me - he must be able to, because he's kissing me everywhere like he's trying to stop me from thinking, like he knows what's going on in my head. He kisses me over the material of my trousers. It makes me wriggle; I can only lightly feel his lips. It's not even a pressure, just the merest hint of a feeling, and I undo the flies of my trousers before he can, shrugging them off so they're down to my knees. Brendan rolls them down further, gets them so they're at my ankles. Then he kisses me there too; on my knees, up my legs, and he's getting higher, nearly at my groin now, but just when I think he's going to kiss me there he ducks down, starts all over again.

"Five minutes." I think I'm gasping it; it's less than five minutes now, and he's still only at my legs. I can see a bulge at the front of his trousers.

His lips glide over the cotton of my underwear. I'm wearing briefs today; they're white and fitted, and he seems to like that they leave nothing to the imagination. He's lapping at them, and there's a wet patch building. I don't know whether it's from me or from what he's doing, the saliva that's gathered on his tongue. He won't let me pull them down. When my hands go to them he stops me, puts his own over them and clasps them tightly at my sides. I imagine his knuckles getting white from it.

I change tact; make out that I want to kiss him, nudging him with my foot, _come up here_, and when he's kissing me I pull my pants down, feel my cock spring free. It's against my stomach, and Brendan must feel it against his when we're pressed together kissing. He calls me a sneaky bastard and I laugh into his mouth. My hands are on his shoulders, my fingers massaging him there till he relents, gets on his knees again.

It can get freezing out here in the winter. I almost long for it now, because I'm sweating in my uniform as he goes down on me. It's been unbearable working in the kitchens in the recent heat, and I wish I could take my shirt off along with my trousers, wish that we had time for it. I can feel that Brendan does too; as he sucks me off he's got his hands above him, and they're on my stomach, his thumbs rubbing against my skin.

He's always been amazing at this. I remember when he had me for the first time down in that cellar, when I leant against the wall and watched a man sucking my dick for the first time. I remember feeling the different sensations; registering the feel of his moustache against the head of my cock. Smelling his aftershave. Hearing the noises he made, and how different they were from the way girls sounded. He'd been detached afterwards though. Cold, and I could feel him leaving me even as he kissed me. And then the next day...

I clear my head, lose myself to this feeling. Brendan breaks off, says _come_, but I've forgotten that we have to rush, and I want to make it last, feel his wet mouth on me for longer. He gets determined though; uses his hands too, palming my balls and spitting onto my cock, and there's no part of me that doesn't feel him. I delay and delay, hold onto his hair, squeeze my eyes shut, hold off until it feels like my legs are turning to jelly and my heart's going to beat out of my chest. Then I come, and his mouth fills with me.

I open my eyes, stare straight ahead and concentrate on breathing evenly. I don't look down to see what Brendan's doing, but after a few seconds he's in front of me. His hair is ruffled and I smooth it back, make him presentable again. He kisses me, and all I can taste is me. It's like he hasn't swallowed me down yet, and he keeps on kissing me until he tastes of him again.

He's hard. My hand reaches out.

"Get back to work." He rubs his nose against mine.

"But..." I touch his erection through his trousers, feel it.

"You'll be late."

"I'm already late." I'm greedy, grabbing at him.

"Go." He whispers it, gives me one last kiss to see me off, tells me he loves me.

"Love you too." I look down at myself, see if everything's in order, tuck my shirt back into my trousers. When I look over at Brendan he's undoing his belt.

"What are you..." My words are caught in my throat.

"Sorting myself out, aren't I?" His voice sounds scratched, raw, betraying the way I've just fucked his mouth.

"Brendan..." I want to stay.

"Go," he says, more firmly this time.

"What if someone sees you?" I'm not even worried as I'm saying it. I'm transfixed, watching him putting his hand in his boxers.

"I won't be long."

Fuck.

"I'll keep the door open, yeah? Let yourself out." I feel like I'm walking backwards so I can keep looking at him. He's only just started, but his eyes are already glazing over. I imagine him going back to Chez Chez, talking to the staff there, none of them knowing what he's just done.

It's going to be a long day.

::::::

I've passed the Tony test. When he comes back he's all smiles, checking the kitchen and seeing the way the restaurant's packed. If the rest of the staff guessed anything about where I disappeared to earlier, they don't let on.

"I'm proud of you."

I don't know where to look.

"I mean it, Ste. You did really well today."

"It was just a few hours. No big deal. I used to look after the deli on my own all the time."

Sometimes I think people forget that I ran a business single handedly after Doug died. Maybe Tony knows what I'm thinking, because he starts backtracking.

"Not that I didn't think you could do it. But still, it's been a while since..."

Since he trusted me enough. Since he believed that I deserved another chance after why he fired me last time.

"Yeah. I know. Thanks, Tony." I grab my jacket, regret having to shift it around in this heat. I feel the key for the garden in my pocket; head back to the office and leave it in a drawer, glad that Tony can't see my face. I'm sure something in my expression would give me away.

I wait for him as he turns off the lights and locks up.

"Want a lift home?" His car's parked outside. He often drives me back to the flat, has a chat with me on the way.

"No, you're alright. I said I'd drop in to see Brendan at work." I didn't say, but it's what I'm feeling like now. It'll be hours before he comes home, and I want to see him.

Tony says his goodbyes, gives me a quick hug before he goes. Maybe it's something about today that's making him like this - leaving me in charge of his business, realising that I can run things without a disaster happening. I can see that he trusts me. I don't know when it happened, or what proved it to him, but I've become someone he can depend on again.

There are lights surrounding the club. I can hear the music from here, and when I walk up the steps I can't go far; there's a queue outside even though it's a Thursday. I wait, digging around in my pocket for some cash to pay the entrance fee. When the crowd clears and I'm at the front, I hold out the money, wait for the guy at the door to take it. It's Colin tonight, looking appropriately intimidating in a t-shirt that defines how broad his chest is.

"You don't pay." He's already looking over my shoulder, waiting to take money from the girls behind me.

"What?" I'm yelling above the music.

"Brady says you don't pay."

"No, that's...I don't mind. Colin?"

He looks at me then. "Ste, I do as he tells me, okay? More than my life's worth to argue with him, especially where you're concerned."

_Especially where you're concerned._ I wonder what Brendan's said, whether he's told the guys at work anything about me. Does he talk about me? What does he say?

I'm annoying the people behind me now, holding up the queue. I walk in, the money still in my hand. I'm scanning the crowd in the club. I think Brendan will be in his office, but he's in the corner of the room tonight, overlooking everyone. He looks like he's keeping an eye on things, making sure there isn't any trouble. Can't be too careful in a village with a history like ours.

I think about shouting out his name to get his attention, but there isn't any point. The music's too loud, and when I make my way over to him I get near the speaker, feels like my ear drums are about to burst. I'm aware of how different I look to everyone else; I'm still in the restaurant's uniform while they're all dressed casually. I should have gone home to change.

He doesn't see me until I'm right in front of him. I have to nudge him with my elbow because he's turned away. When he looks at me his expression's hostile, like he's expecting me be some rowdy customer winding him up. It changes when he registers it's me; it's like it's gentle suddenly. Like he's all mine again.

He kisses me in front of a club full of people. I wonder if that'll ever get old.

"Didn't expect you tonight. Better than a night in front of the telly, eh?"

"Nothing decent on anyway so I thought I'd come by."

He looks half offended, half amused.

"Make me one of those_ sorry Steven_ drinks, won't you?"

"Why? I ain't done anything wrong, have I?" He looks like he's trying to remember, looking back on what he could have done.

"No, but I like the taste of them, don't I?"

Brendan moans and grumbles a bit, but he does as I ask, goes over to the bar and gets started. His blue shirt looks as clean as when he put it on this morning.

I manage to find a seat when someone gets up to leave. I watch Brendan behind the bar - I've tried to make this drink myself, but it never comes out the same as his does. He's got magical hands.

"Brendan?"

Maybe I've got a tone he doesn't like, because he sounds wary when he says _Yes, Steven?_

"You know when I was trying to get in here before..."

"Yeah? Didn't get any trouble, did you? Who's at the door - Colin? He's a good lad, ain't he?"

"What do you mean, _a good lad_?" It feels like my skin's prickling. "Fancy him, do you?"

Brendan gives me a _are you serious?_ look.

"Christ."

"Don't be starting on like that," I say, defensive now. "All I meant was -"

"And I all I meant was, he's a good lad. If he gave you any trouble, you tell me and -"

"And you'll what, beat him up? Get rid of him for me?" I'm joking, but Brendan's not. His expression's serious when he looks at me. "I'm kidding."

"Oh. Right."

"He didn't do anything to me. Except..." I can feel Brendan staring at me intently, wanting to know what's happened. He's stopped making the drink now. I tell him to continue - I think he needs to be doing something with his hands, take his mind off what I'm about to say. I know him. He'll only worry if he doesn't.

It's only when he picks up from where he left off that I continue talking.

"I tried to pay when I came in, and he wouldn't let me."

Brendan stops, stands still. When he carries on moving again it's like he wants to pretend nothing's happened.

"So?" His voice is casual; _too_ casual.

"So - why? Did you tell him not to charge me?"

"Maybe." All it sounds like is _yes_.

"And what about drinks?" I've got this feeling, this feeling that it doesn't only extend to paying my way in. "Brendan?" He's gone all quiet on me. "You haven't told them not to charge me for drinks, have you?"

His silence tells me everything.

"That's not fair!"

He's exasperated at that. "Not fair? How is that not fair?"

"I'm not taking money off you! This is your business. I want you doing well. I want you to -"

"I am doing well, Steven. I am." The music's still threatening to drown us out, but he's speaking over it, seems desperate now for me to understand, to agree with him. "I'm making profit."

"And how long is that going to last for? You're not going to make profit if you're not letting me pay for anything."

"It's fine. It's...I've sorted it, okay?" He tries to put a hand on my cheek, but I shrug him off.

"So I've got some kind of tab, is that what you're saying? You're paying for all of it - the entrance money, the drinks? What if I get food, eh? Are you going to be paying for that too?"

He stares at me uncomfortably, confirming that I'm right.

"Do you not think I'm earning money myself?" I ask. "Is that it? Do you think Tony's giving me peanuts?"

"He's not giving you much though, is he? Not what you deserve. You keep that place afloat, Steven. You're a better chef than he is, and he knows it. They'd be lost without you."

Maybe he thinks that by praising me I'm going to drop it.

"I don't want anything to risk this, Brendan."

"Risk what?"

"_This_." I look down at my hands on the bar, wonder how I'm going to say this to him. "You haven't been out long. The first five years, they're the most important, aren't they? To prove yourself, to prove to everyone that you're not going to leave again, that you're not going to...that you're not going to leave me. It should be my money that's going into this place too, Bren. Mine, not just yours. You already paid for most of our flat, for stuff for the kids, for the holidays - Disneyland. And now you won't even let me pay for a drink. I won't let anything ruin what you've built here. I won't let...I won't let you have nothing."

"Steven." I know what he wants to say: he wants to tell me that it's just one drink, that I'm exaggerating, being paranoid. Only this time, I'm wrong. That's not what he says at all.

"I'm sorry, okay? I just...I just want to look after you. But you can pay for this, okay?"

"Really?" I'm surprised. I didn't think he'd back down this easily, but I know this isn't the end of it - he may let me pay for one drink, but he's stubborn with the rest.

"Really." He's finished the cocktail now. He puts it in front of me, then makes a show of holding out his hand for the money. I hold it out to him, pocket my change and then start to drink. It's perfect, just how I like it.

"How many more of these before you forgive me?"

"Keep 'em coming."

::::::

Declan looks like he's grown a foot every time I see him; Paddy too.

I don't say it though. I don't want to be one of those embarrassing relatives.

It's the summer holidays and they're staying over for a few days. At first we think it'll be better to keep their visit separate from Lucas and Leah coming over at the weekend - we don't really have the space for that many people, but I know how gutted they'd be if they didn't see Brendan's kids. I think Leah's got a bit of a crush on Declan, and I'm not ready to tell her that they can never happen for many, many different reasons. She was hanging off his every word when they went to Florida together.

Me and Brendan decide to give the spare room to Leah and Lucas, and our bedroom to Padraig and Declan. They don't mind sharing the double bed, and we can make do with the fold out sofa. It's not the kind of comfort that we're used to, but we have experience with sleeping on sofas, so. Well, not sleeping so much as - you know.

Amy and Simon drop the kids off. Brendan comes out and it's pleasant enough - a bit strained, but then it always is, isn't it? I'm never not aware that they're being nice for my sake, but at least they're making the effort. Simon's alright. Better than Ally, although that's not difficult. He's quiet, but I can tell that the kids feel comfortable around him. I can feel Brendan's hand resting on my back when Simon's saying goodbye to the kids, hugging them; he knows, I guess. He's been there with his Eileen and her bloke Michael. He knows what it's like to see another man with your kids, to always feel like you're in danger of being replaced.

We go back inside the flat. It's already chaos; Lucas is overexcited, might as well be bouncing off the walls for all the energy that's coming off him. Leah's trying to get Declan's attention, sulking when she fails. Paddy's exploring the fridge and cupboards like he's expecting Willy Wonka to jump out of them.

I can hear Brendan muttering under his breath beside me, sounds a lot like _Jesus_ and _fuck. _There had been distractions in Florida - all the rides and the food and the pool by our hotel. Now it's just him, me and our kids.

"Right." I need to get on top of this, make sure it doesn't escalate and make Brendan panic. "Who wants to go out?"

They seem to answer me all at once. Paddy wants to go to the cinema, but I tell him it's too hot for that. Cinema's never seem to have air conditioning. Declan wants to go into town, shop for a new game that's come out, but town will be packed at the weekend, and it feels too sticky to be caught in a crowd, pushed in every direction.

Leah wants to go iceskating.

"Iceskating?" Paddy's sceptical. "It's not the weather for iceskating."

She sticks her tongue out at him, crosses her arms.

"That's not a bad idea actually." The idea of being in a cold rink is appealing; I'm wearing shorts and a vest but I still want to crawl out of my own skin.

I feel a hand on my arm.

"No." Brendan's shaking his head, unblinking.

"Why not?" I look towards the kids, find that there are no protests beyond Paddy's initial hesitation.

Brendan tries to get me alone, out of earshot of our audience.

"I don't ice skate."

"You mean you can't." I'm not surprised. I can't imagine Brendan even wearing a pair of skates, let alone prancing around a rink and doing all the fancy moves that I've seen on tv.

"I'm not going." He's more stubborn than our Leah.

"Come on." I lower my voice. "The kids want to see you. Declan and Paddy didn't fly all the way from Ireland just so you could ignore them."

"I'm not ignoring them. I'll...I'll go out to dinner with you tonight, okay? I'll do anything you want. Just...not this."

"Dad?" Declan's aware that something's up. "Are you not coming?"

There's disappointment there, from the rest of them too. I can see Brendan trying to avoid their eyes, not be guilt tripped, but the silence stretches on and then the whining starts: Leah and Lucas want him there, tell him so, tell him they won't go if he doesn't come, and that's it, that's done it.

"I'm coming!" Brendan stamps off to the kitchen, and for a second I think it's dutch courage he's after, but he puts on the kettle, rubs his hand against his forward like he's asking for strength.

The kids are smug. They get their things together, put their shoes back on.

I slap Brendan's arse when they're not looking.

"I'll make it up to you."

"I'll hold you to that."

::::::

Brendan gets as far as putting on his skates. I think maybe - just maybe - he's going to join us on the rink, but he stands on the outside instead, watches the kids go round again and again.

I skate over to him. I'm not bad at this; I have a few memories of Amy dragging me along when we were first going out.

"You just going to stay in the corner all afternoon? Come on. We've got the whole rink to ourselves."

"Because we're the only ones stupid enough to come iceskating in the summer." He's all grouchy and tightly wound; it's ruined slightly by the fact that he's wearing skates that he can barely walk in.

"The kids are loving it though."

We look over at them. They've fallen over a few times, all of them, but they don't make a drama out of it. They stand up, brush themselves off, laugh. I know we might not get many more holidays with Declan - it won't be long before he's twenty, and he's not going to want to stay with his dad anymore; he'll be off with his mates, away at Uni. Something like this, having him here - it's not something I take for granted.

"Didn't you ever go skating as a kid?" I ask absentmindedly; my back's against the edge of the rink. Brendan's leaning forward on his arms at my side.

"No. Chez went a few times I think, but..."

"You didn't want to go?"

"Seamus took her, so." He's quiet.

I turn round to face him, put my hands on the front of his shirt to pull him closer to me.

"Hey," I say quietly, and he mumbles _hey_ back. "Doesn't matter that you're not skating, you know."

"No?" He asks, turning his head slightly to the side.

"No. Cos I can still do this."

I kiss him; kiss his beard, kiss his lips until I can feel him smiling.

::::::

_Three years ago_

"Hi, Ames."

I'm sitting at John Paul's house. The tv's on in the background. Mercedes is in the kitchen putting some crisps in a bowl. I can hear the sound of a hairdryer from upstairs. John Paul's opposite me, pretending he's oblivious to the phone call.

I could have taken this somewhere private, but I want Amy to hear the noise in the background, the sound of life. I want her to know that I'm not on my own anymore. That I don't spend my evening's holed up in my flat, barely speaking to anyone.

"Ste." She sounds surprised, like she didn't expect to hear from me. This is our routine though; every evening I call her, speak to the kids, find out how their day's been.

"Is this a bad time?" I know I have to be reasonable about this, but I want to speak to them.

"No. I just...you don't usually call this early. They're about to have their dinner."

I check the clock on the wall, see if she's right. Time can be one big blur, like it doesn't mean what it should.

"Sorry. I'll call back later." I'm about to put the phone down - I feel embarrassed that I've interrupted her, and I imagine her and Simon sitting down at the table with Leah and Lucas, part of something which I'm not.

"No!" Amy sounds urgent, and it's like she's trying to keep me with her now. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." I speak slowly, like I'm not understanding her - and I'm not. She sounds concerned, but I think I sound fine; I think I sound normal. And then it's like I'm racing to speak to her, trying to get things out as fast as possible. "Yeah, things are good. Things are going really well at work." I've already told her that Tony's given me my job back. She'd wanted to know why he'd fired me in the first place, and I'd realised my mistake; I'd fed her some story about how I'd been late a few times, let him down. It was better than her knowing the truth.

"Good. That's good."

I'm not sure she believes me.

"And other things too." I look across at John Paul, find him staring at me, see him look away hurriedly when I notice. I haven't told her about him yet. I've been putting it off, and I don't know why. I know she'll be happy for me, and maybe it'll be a good thing - John Paul can come along to visit Amy and Simon when I go and see the kids.

"I'm seeing someone." I see the corners of John Paul's mouth twitch, like he doesn't want me to see him smiling.

Amy practically squeaks she's so excited.

"That's wonderful! I'm so pleased for you."

"Ta."

"How long has it being going on?"

"Few months," I say.

"_Months_?"

"I wanted to tell you, but..." But what? Why didn't I tell her? "I just wanted to wait a bit, let things...you know, develop first."

"But he's nice?"

"Of course. He's great." I smile across at him, let him know that it's okay to be listening in.

"Who is it? Anyone I know?"

"Yeah. John Paul McQueen."

I wait for her to say something. Anything.

"Amy?" I'm trying not to let on to John Paul that there's silence on the other end of the line.

When she speaks, her voice is clipped. "John Paul?"

"Yeah." I get an uneasy feeling in my stomach. Suddenly the McQueen's living room feels too stifling, like I'm too close to everyone and everything. Something tells me that I shouldn't be having this conversation here; I get up from the sofa, shoot what I hope is a reassuring look across at John Paul, mime _one second _as I make my way to the front door. I can feel his eyes on my back as I leave.

When I'm out in the open air, I check for any sign of the curtains moving. I'm being ridiculous - even if he's watching me, he can't hear anything, can he? I make sure I lower my voice just in case.

"That's not a problem, is it?" I ask. This isn't going how I thought it would. Amy's been on at me about finding someone, about her not wanting me to be lonely. I thought this was what she wanted.

I hear her laugh in that way she does when she's pissed off. Kind of mocking, hysterical.

"John Paul, Ste. _John Paul_."

I don't get it. I don't get any of this.

"So what?" I hate arguing with her, hate upsetting her, but right now I don't care. This is meant to be perfect, and she's trying to ruin it for me.

"Have you forgotten what he did to my sister?"

Shit.

I close my eyes, rest my forehead against my knuckles.

"Amy..." I don't know what to say. We don't talk about Sarah much; I've taken my cue from Amy over the years, and she doesn't bring her up, doesn't mention her except for birthdays and the anniversary of when she died. I think it's too painful for her.

I'm an idiot. A fucking _idiot_.

"I'm sorry." It's all I can think of to say.

"She was devastated, Ste." She sounds tearful. I want nothing more than to reach out to her, hold her. But I'd be a hypocrite, wouldn't I. I've been in that position: I've cheated and lied. I've hurt girls that I was meant to be looking after. Maybe if I'd been better to Rae then she'd still be here now.

"I know." I don't know though. I heard things - I remember gossip spreading through the village, and I remember seeing Sarah with red eyes like she'd been crying, and hearing all about John Paul and Craig. It's not the same as living it though. It's not the same as what Amy saw.

I'm struggling to find a way to make this right. I think of someone hurting Tegan or Leela or Peri like that, and I know I wouldn't stand for it.

"He's changed though. He's...he's not like that anymore." But there's a voice inside my head that's reminding me of what he did to Sam; what happened with him and my dad.

"What is it with you defending people?"

I think she's going to say it then. I think she's going to say his name - _him_, the first person I think of when I wake up and the last person I think of before I go to sleep - and I feel like I've been waiting for it for ever.

She doesn't though. I wait, but she doesn't even mention him. No one talks about him anymore. Either they didn't know him or they want to forget about him. Sometimes it feels like it's killing me I want to mention him so much, but if I do then people will know that I'm still...they'll think I'm still holding onto him, then I'm not letting go, not moving on.

But I would do anything for someone to mention his name.

She talks about Doug sometimes. She liked Doug; liked that he would never hurt me. And she talks about_ bad influences _and _things from your past_, but it's not enough - it's not the kind of thing where I can defend _him_, can tell her that he loved me and I loved him, and that's all that mattered. And that I still do, and that it still does.

I can only think it. I can only think it, _Brendan_, and he's in my dreams. It's like that's the only world he's allowed to exist in now.


	5. Chapter 5

Memories eat away at you.

I don't expect them to get at me today. It's rare for them to linger when I'm with Brendan and the kids. It's like something shuts them out; maybe it's that feeling of being happy that keeps them from reaching the surface.

We've been iceskating for over an hour now. The kids are getting hungry, and my feet feel sore - it's been years since I've done this, and the skates are beginning to feel heavy and clunky. Brendan's managed to enter the rink, but he's holding onto the side, has barely scraped the ice. Paddy's laughed at him a bit. I've told him off, but it's been difficult not to laugh myself, he looks so grumpy. The thought of lunch and me rewarding him for his efforts is all that seems to be keeping him going.

It's when I'm off the rink and switching my skates for my shoes that I begin to feel it. Somehow I'm colder out here than when I was skating. The floor is wet with ice, and I can feel goosebumps rising over my body. It creeps up slowly, this feeling; like a nagging memory more than something clear and sharp. It's not something I'm aware of at first - I feel dizzy suddenly, hazy, but I don't know why. I'm aware of keeping Leah and Lucas within my sight, and I can see them putting their shoes on near to me. But my vision feels like it's clouding. My breathing sounds different, like it's more pants than breaths. I reach out a hand, trying to feel for where I can sit down, because I don't trust myself enough to see.

It's something about the cold. I remember that feeling: like you're never going to be warm again, like you can't remember what it was like to be warm in the first place. I remember huddling close to Cheryl, trying to steal her warmth, but neither of us had any left. I remember feeling like I was shaking violently; like if I looked in the mirror my lips would be blue and my skin wouldn't look like my skin anymore. I remember the moment when I realised that it was a trap, that me and Cheryl going to a safe place was a lie; I remember seeing the newspaper clippings that Walker had collected and realising that he'd trapped us. I remember hearing the door slam shut and seeing him before everything went black. We'd screamed; there's something terrifying about screaming and knowing that no one's ever going to hear. Then we'd huddled on the floor, talked about Nate and the kids, and I thought how much I'd let them down, how I'd never been the kind of father I should have been. And I thought of _him_: _I wish he loved me as I much as I loved him._ That's what I said before I thought I was going to die.

I want to rest my head in between my legs, stop the sickness, but I can't let the kids see me like that. I can hear them talking like they haven't noticed anything yet.

Declan and Padraig must have come in to get their shoes too, because I can hear them now. I know Brendan will be with them, and I make an attempt to stand up.

I haven't thought about that day in a long time. I thought I'd beaten it.

I finish doing up my shoes. I'll be glad to go and get something to eat - I don't know if I can hold anything down, but I need something to drink at least. My throat feels uncomfortably dry.

"Ready to go?" I sit next to Brendan, hope that as I'm not standing directly in front of him he won't notice anything different. He's concentrating, is fiddling with his laces, but somehow he ends up tangling them more. They look a mess, and I take them in my hands instead, undo them for him.

"Thanks," he mumbles.

"I've done up your laces before. May as well undo them for you too." I'm joking, but I wonder if this is what it'll be like when we're old. When I'm seventy he'll be eighty; maybe it should make me scared, but it doesn't.

We go to the bathroom before we leave, ask Declan to mind the kids. I'm walking quickly, and the minute I hear Brendan lock the door behind him I step out of the toilet. I've got the place to myself for a few minutes, and I stare at my reflection: my eyes look glassy. My cheeks are flushed, but the rest of my skin is pale, looks almost grey. I splash my face with water from the sink, manage to get half of it over my trousers. I try and get it off, holding my leg awkwardly up to the hand-dryer, but I can see in the mirror that I still look sick.

I turn my face away when Brendan walks out. He seems relieved to be back in his own shoes, away from the rink; he's more himself again, and he seems relaxed in a way that he rarely is around Declan and Paddy. Most of their visits have been strained, mixed with silences and little digs from Declan. I didn't come with him to Ireland when he first went over there after being released. At first I thought he didn't want me seeing Eileen, but I think it's because he didn't want me to see the way his sons treated him. He was always pleased to come home after those visits, like he'd been holding his breath the whole time. _Fine_ was how he used to describe seeing them. Fine is what you say when you don't know how to explain how bad things really are.

I'm about to open the door and go back out when he stops me, kisses against my neck.

"Thanks for today."

"I didn't do anything." I try to wriggle out of his grasp; I'm worried he's going to see what I look like.

"You're the glue, Steven."

"The glue?" I laugh.

"The thing that keeps us all together. Don't know what I'd do if you weren't...you know..."

"Yes you do. You'd be their dad. You'd be okay, Bren." I put my arms around him, and it's not just because I'm trying to hide my face; I need to hold him, to feel him calming down in my arms. It shakes him up, being with Declan and Padraig.

"Come on, let's get back out there," I say. "Go for some food."

"Wait a minute." He turns me in his arms so that I'm looking at him. "You okay? You're freezing."

"It's an ice rink, isn't it?" I sound almost angry at him now; I don't want him to know what's been going on inside my head, to pick at the scar. It would only upset him.

Brendan looks at me, touches my cheek, and his eyes look like they're searching for something in mine.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing." I squirm in his arms.

"Steven."

"Really, Brendan. Leave it."

I think he's going to, but then he presses the point.

"Is it about Richard? Are you worried about going back?"

I thought we'd let the subject die. I had hoped that the lack of mention of it today meant that Brendan had forgotten about it; fooling myself, I suppose. It feels like one more thing to add to the list that's making me panic.

"No. I'm not going back, remember? Not while that Stacey's there."

I think we're about to get into an argument about it when the bathroom door opens and Declan looks through.

He looks tentative, like he doesn't know what he's about to walk into.

"What's taking so long?"

"Nothing. Sorry." I get out from between Brendan's arms, making my escape before he can talk me back inside.

::::::

Things get better when we're having lunch. Maybe it's being away from the ice rink, being out of the cold, but the memory isn't hitting me like it was before.

Sometimes I think I'm lucky that Leah and Lucas are too young to know everything I've done. I know they've seen things, are aware of things even if they don't completely remember them; what I did to Amy, all the fights we used to have. When I'd turn up at her door begging for her to take me back. They must have heard me shouting, and it fills me with shame, the knowledge of it. They've seen me being arrested. They've seen me being run over. They've seen me in hospital. They've seen more than they ever should have had to see, but they don't blame me for it - not yet. One day we might come to that point, but for now I'm just their dad, the man who protects them.

Brendan didn't have that. Things are better with Paddy - less strained, because he was younger when Brendan left. But Declan was old enough for it to leave its mark, and I saw with my own eyes what that kid had to go through: Brendan turning him away. What Walker did to him. He'd come running to me years ago, Declan did, asked if he could stay with me, wanted some space to think and be away from his dad. It was a mistake keeping him at mine and not telling Brendan. But things were different then, and I thought...I thought that maybe Brendan might hurt him. I hadn't known then, hadn't known for sure that Brendan would never hurt his kids, not like that.

He's angry. Anyone can see that. First time he stayed with us after Brendan was released, he could barely say two words to his dad. I think he only agreed to come because Paddy was badgering him. Eileen didn't want it; I never believed that she'd let them get on the plane, but she must have worked out that Brendan would see them one way or another. It would have been impossible to stop him now that the boys were getting older.

I told Brendan that time would help. Lots of it, and not running out on them again. Just the little things - being there for them when they needed someone to talk to, calling them up regularly, remembering to send a card on birthdays and at Christmas. Brendan had always used money. I'd seen it myself when Declan had come over. He'd pay him to keep him happy, or to keep him quiet - often it seemed like a distraction, like if he could get Declan into town or the cinema, then he wouldn't be at risk of snooping around Brendan's life, finding out about us, finding out about who Brendan is.

_It has to stop. _That's what I told him during those first visits after prison, after I saw Brendan trying to fall into the same pattern, do the same things. I'd done it myself before. It's easy to think that you can buy your kids presents and that'll be enough; that a few new toys or clothes is going to make a difference.

He'd had to get to know them again, who they really are. I think he had this box in his head, and it was labelled _kids_, and he'd never really taken the time to learn their differences, what made them unique from each other, what they liked, what they did. When I asked him what they liked to eat, all he could tell me was that Declan was a vegetarian. He'd missed so much, whole chunks of their life, and it was like he thought it was too late.

I think he finds it easier when Leah and Lucas are around, when it's not just him and Paddy and Declan. They calm him, my kids - he knows what they like, knows their favourite stories, and maybe little details changed in the years he was gone, but _they_ didn't change. He knows how to act around them.

It takes time though. I've told him. Declan and Paddy, they're not just going to adjust like that. Brendan's impatient though: _it's been over a year, Steven_, but the kids aren't going to care if it's a year or two years or a whole lifetime, are they? Whether they decide to trust him again, let him in again - that's their decision.

Eileen calls them in the evening. She does it whenever they stay here, and I can see how much Brendan hates it even though he'd never say. He thinks she's checking up on them, seeing if he's treating them right, and I don't think he's far from the truth. Her conversations with him and me are short, strained; she wants to speak to Declan and Padraig straight away. Not one for small talk, is Eileen.

She's getting better though. Today she calls as we're going to bed, not the minute that the boys have arrived like she usually does. Me and Brendan are making up the sofa bed when the phone rings, and Declan takes it into our bedroom - his and his brother's for their stay - to speak to her. I can see Brendan desperately wanting to hover around the door, so I call him to bed to distract him.

The sofa bed's lumpy but it'll do; I fluff my pillow to make it more comfortable, watch Brendan being tougher with his; it reminds me of the way he used to bake bread before I showed him how to be gentle.

We settle down, our sides touching.

"Good day, wasn't it?" He sounds like he can't believe it.

"Yeah." I try not to think about the memory, about how I had hardly been able to move from how real it had felt. "It was brilliant." I turn to him. "There will be more days like that, you know."

He smiles: he's believing it now.

"Come here." He's sort of holding his arms open for me, making a space for me there. I shuffle to him, lean against his chest. He's wearing a vest for the kids' sake, like he thinks they haven't worked out what we are to each other, what we do. I wish he wouldn't wear one.

He kisses the top of my head. "Thank you." He murmurs it into my hair.

"For what?"

"You know what."

I do and I don't. Maybe I've helped him, but he's done this. He's made the kids feel safe with him, made them want to be here. He didn't need me for that.

But I say _you're welcome_, because I think it's easier for him to believe that I did it. If I'm responsible then the pressure's off. He won't be the one to mess it up, not if I'm calling the shots here.

It's harder for him to believe that all this - it's him.

I tell him I love him.

"I love you too." I wrap myself in him and settle down to sleep.

::::::

I wake up in the pitch black. I don't know what's woken me, but I know I'm in unfamiliar surroundings; the bed feels different, and it takes me a moment to remember that we've given our room to Declan and Padraig.

I shift and find that Brendan's awake beside me. Neither of us say anything - I think we both hope that we'll instantly fall asleep, but ten minutes later I'm still awake, thoughts rattling in my head.

"Can't sleep either?" Brendan says. He must have noticed me stirring beside him.

"No. It's too hot."

"It's going to be even worse if we go abroad."

"We don't have to go somewhere _hot_ hot though, do we? Not like boiling."

"We could be near the sea anyway. Might not be so bad."

"Oh yeah." I'm getting excited thinking about it. We haven't been on a holiday alone together since Dublin.

"Move closer."

"No."

"No?"

"You're all hot, aren't you?"

"Am I?" He says.

"You're all fuzzy. It's like lying next to a radiator."

"A radiator? Seriously, Steven? Come on."

I give in, scoot closer and get back into the position that we fell asleep in. I'm right; with my face next to his beard and my chest against his chest and my legs touching his legs, somehow I feel boiling.

He kisses my neck.

"None of that. The kids."

"I wasn't -"

"Yeah you was. They're going to wake up."

"Because of you, you mean." There's an amused look on his face.

"What does that mean?" My nose must be wrinkled, because Brendan's smooths down it with a finger.

"It means you can't ever keep it down."

He laughs at my expression.

"That's not true."

"Prove it." Brendan bends down, scrapes his teeth along my nipples.

"No." I wriggle away from him, bringing the cover between us even when it feels like I'm sweating from the cloying material. "Now go to sleep."

He tuts, disarming me by getting to his feet and making his way to the kitchen. I watch him as he goes; his vest and boxers cling to him, and his calf muscles look sculptured even in the low light. I can see his tattoo, his cross, and he's got his back to me as he runs the tap in the sink, filling a glass with water.

When he's done drinking he lifts his vest off over his head, throws it towards me on the sofa where it lands on me.

"Oi."

"Too hot." I think he's going to come back to bed, but he goes towards the bathroom, shuts the door but doesn't lock it.

I lie in bed, close my eyes, but it's like I know I won't be able to sleep.

I stand up, pad across the room in the dark. I don't turn the lamp on in case I wake the kids, but it's a struggle not to knock into things.

I tap on the bathroom door softly then go in, locking it behind me. Brendan's washing his hands. I can see the curve of his spine, the way his boxers are low on his hips. He stares at me in the mirror, but he can probably barely see me; I walk up behind him, put my arms around his waist.

"What's this?" He turns in my arms, slowly so he doesn't dislodge me. He's smiling.

"I just thought..." I don't know what I'm doing. I just know that I want to kiss him. "I said I owed you for today."

His eyes are shining; I can see that.

"The kids?"

"Let's be quick then."

I turn around, reach for the switch and we're flooded with light. We both blink hastily, but then we're on each other, out of our pyjamas. I almost feel self conscious being in front of him like this. I'm used to fucking him in the near darkness or with the soft, dim lighting from the lamp in our room. The artificial lights show everything, and I'm aware of the skinniness of my legs, the way that my ribs show if I stretch. Brendan's unfazed; he takes hold of my hand and brings me to him, plays with my cock while he kisses me. His hand moves with speed, his thumb swiping against my slit with every movement downwards. He gives me a semi before releasing me.

His cock's standing on end. I take it in my fist, and a sound comes from him that he tries to stifle.

"What do you want?" I'm not sure if he wants me to play with him or if he wants to fuck me, or both.

He parts his lips the smallest amount. It would be undetectable if I wasn't looking at him so carefully.

I get onto my knees. The bathroom floor is wonderfully cold, a welcome relief against my skin. I take Brendan's cock into my mouth, suck on the head. I swipe and coil and massage my tongue over and over until I know he's growing frustrated at my teasing, but he doesn't try to force me into his mouth, not once. When I look up his eyes are on me, his hand on the back of my head but not pushing. I suck him and don't break eye contact until I take him in deeper, and then I concentrate: feel the shake in his legs, the smoothness of his arse under my palm as I hold him to steady him. Hear his low groans and how he's trying to control them, knowing we have company. Taste his precum in my mouth, knowing he's close, using my hands now too, determined. When I look up again he's biting against his fist to stop himself from yelling out, his eyes heavy lidded.

He wants me to stop before he comes, but I don't; I swallow around him thickly, work fast and hard, angling him deeper into my mouth until a stream of cum hits the back of my throat. I hold it there until he's finished then swallow, let Brendan watch me do it.

He laughs into my mouth as I kiss him. I'm not done with him yet though.

I brush my thumb over the head of his cock. Brendan hisses; it must still be sensitive.

"You trying to kill me?" He strokes down my arm.

"I'm trying to...you know." I'm trying to get it up again.

I think he's going to leave. He untangles himself from me, heads to the door. But he doesn't go: instead he looks around, down to where the kids are sleeping, listening out for a noise. He must hear nothing, because he comes back into the bathroom and locks the door again.

"Give it a second. Just kiss me, yeah?" He says, eyes on my lips.

He feels down my body as he kisses me, working himself up. His cock's soft when I rub my body against it, but it thickens as his hands wander lower, down to my hole, down to my balls. He spreads my cheeks with one hand, swipes a finger across my hole with the other, starts to finger me slowly. We've got nothing in this bathroom - no lube, only soap and shower gel, and it feels tight and his finger feels dry, but I give into it, lean my face into his neck. He's being careful, finger moving steadily, not too much pressure, and I'm moving against his body, rocking slightly back and forth. I can feel his cock growing against my thigh.

"Quiet." He's whispering into my ear. I hadn't realised I'd been making a noise. I clamp my lips shut, feel like I'm hardly daring to breathe as he feels inside me.

I reach down, take his cock in my hand and feel the thickness of it.

"Now, yeah?" I say it deliberately then turn, brace myself with my hands against the tiled wall, bum pushed backwards to meet him.

Then nothing.

I look over my shoulder, see Brendan putting his boxers back on.

"What are you doing?" I can hear the protest in my voice.

"Getting the lube." His erection is evident in his boxers; I hope for his sake that we haven't woken anyone.

"It's in our room though." I think of him sneaking past Declan and Paddy to get it. It's both hilarious and slightly disturbing.

"I put some in a bag by the sofa." He's prepared for this, runs from the bathroom leaving me naked and waiting for him. He's back in a matter of seconds; swears when he stubs his toe against the door in his hurry to close it. He shakes off my concern: slicks me with lube, puts some onto his cock, positions himself behind me and pushes in.

He slides in easily. My arms feel sore from stretching against the wall, but I leave them there and jolt back into him, meet him thrust for thrust, build up a rhythm. We make an effort not to make a sound, not to cry out, but our bodies together can still be heard, the sound of his balls against my bum. His hands are everywhere; playing with my nipples, snaking lower and rubbing against my stomach; gripping my shoulders, fingers digging in enough to leave a mark; curved around my hips, holding me as I push back into him.

He tells me that he's about to come, and I hold on for as long as possible, delay and delay until he's ready, and we come together.

We're laughing as we get back into bed, sticky from the heat.

"No, don't." He's gone to put his vest back on. He leaves it, watches as I take his cross necklace in my hand, stare at it for a few seconds. I kiss his lips, know that he might still be able to taste himself in my mouth.

He's exhausted me and I've exhausted him, and I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

::::::

We're about to go into town. Turns out having four kids around does wonders at clearing your fridge, and even though we'd got in extra food in preparation, it's nearly empty by the end of their stay.

I'm getting my shoes on when there's a knock at the door. I think maybe it's Amy coming back, that Leah or Lucas have forgotten something, but it's not. It's Richard.

He's smiling, but I don't think I am.

After he says hello, we just sort of stand there.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" He's a bit unsure of himself; he's never been to my flat before, and it shows. We've never had that kind of relationship. We're not friends: what we've gone through in the past, the reason we both go to the meetings - that's all we have in common. What's between us exists only in that room.

I want to tell him no, that I won't invite him in, but I don't have it in me today. I'm tired and I owe him, don't I? I owe him for everything he's done for me.

I stand back, let him come in. He's polite, wiping his shoes on the carpet, asking me if I want him to take them off. I tell him not to bother; we've got enough muddy footprints from the kids that one more won't hurt. For a few seconds we stand in the hallway, and it's like I don't know what to do with him. It feels strange - _I_ feel strange, inviting him into my house, playing the host. It's running through my mind, everything I've ever told him about my life, about the things I've done, and I wonder if it's running through his too. Maybe he's thinking how normal my house seems, my life. Or maybe he's thinking I fit right in.

Brendan appears in the hallway. I look between them, see if there's anything there - a glance, some sign that he was expecting him, but there's nothing.

"Richard. We were just on our way out."

"Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to have a word with Ste."

"You could have called," I say, and I can hear how put out I sound.

"I tried, but you haven't been taking my calls."

There's silence. I feel ashamed; I didn't want Brendan to find out about that.

"Like Bren said, we're on our way out, so."

"Don't worry." Brendan moves towards us, takes the list of food we need from the table. "I can go."

"No -"

"Really. I don't mind." He kisses me quickly on the cheek. It's like he's already prepared, and he closes the door behind him before I have a chance to argue.

Silence again, then my voice, full of accusation.

"Did Brendan put you up to this?" I imagine Brendan finding Richard's number, the one I've got written down, and them plotting together, organising this apparent spontaneous meeting to make it look as natural as possible.

"No. He didn't know anything about this."

I scan his face. "So you just decided to come down here?"

"Like I said, I've been trying to ring you."

He's left messages too, and voicemails, but I've ignored every single one. It felt easy at the time, but now, Richard standing here, having to face him - I feel childish.

_Think about everything this man's done for you. How he let you come back time and time again, even when you started fights, even when you were in no fit state to be anywhere. _

"Do you want to come in? Properly, I mean. I can make you a drink if you want."

He looks surprised by the sudden peace that's broken out.

"That would be lovely. Thank you. Coffee would be good."

I make it for him as he sits at the table. I almost make the coffee as I would for Brendan. It's a habit; two sugars - I've weaned him down from three - not too much milk, a large cup. Then I realise, asking Richard how he takes it.

It's too hot to drink at first. We use it as a distraction, sipping at it before realising that we'll have to wait a while. I'm thinking what to talk about with him, wondering why he's not going first, not making the effort seeing as he's come here.

"Are you sure Brendan's not put you up to this?" I don't buy that Richard came here out of his own concern. It hasn't been long enough for him to start worrying about me. It's not like I've missed any meetings, and he knows how well I've been doing lately.

"This isn't about Brendan, Ste."

"But -"

"I'm here to talk about you. I'm sorry to come to your house like this, but I thought it was necessary."

I roll my eyes. We have different definitions of necessary.

"It's a nice place you've got here." Richard looks around appreciatively.

"Thanks," I say grudgingly. "Better than my last flat anyway.'

"The boarding house?" I didn't think he'd remember. Or maybe I didn't want him to remember anything about my old life.

"No, not...I mean my last place before that. My old flat. The one that...you know, got burnt down."

He nods.

"It's not hard to get somewhere better than that place. It was a dump." Even as I'm insulting it, I'm thinking about it - thinking about the things that happened there. It would be better if there were only bad memories; that I could take. But my kids grew up there. Me and Brendan - it was _ours_. It was the first place that was ours.

I focus: remember where I am.

"Anyway, I'm sure you didn't come here to admire my flat."

Richard laughs. "You always cut straight to the point, Ste."

"Are you saying that's a bad thing?"

"No, it's just...what happened the other day with Stacey - don't you think you two might be similar in certain ways?"

I almost splutter. "_Similar_? You're comparing me to that girl?"

"In fairness, you don't even know her."

"In fairness, neither do you. She's only just arrived and she's already sticking her nose in, judging me."

"What she said was a little...out of line, I admit. But don't let her stop you from coming back. We can sort this out."

I shrug. "Maybe it's time anyway. For me to move on."

"Do you think you're ready?"

I feel unsettled by the question, by the way Richard's looking at me like he's doubting me. I am ready. _I am._ I have to be ready one day, and why can't it be now?

"Don't you?" I'm scared by his answer. I'm not sure it'll be what I want to hear.

Richard's quiet when he speaks. "Stacey was wrong to say what she did. But...Ste, it's been something I've been thinking about."

"What do you mean?" My hand's around my coffee cup. It feels like it's burning it but I don't take it away.

"Before Brendan came back..." Richard stalls, looks like he's choosing his words carefully. "You were very...different. Depressed. Even though you were clean, and you had the kids back in your life."

"So? So what if I was?" I've never thought of myself like that: _depressed_.

"When Brendan returned - the change in you, it was..."

"What?" I'm sick of his hesitation, sick of not knowing what he's going to say next.

"Dramatic."

I shift in my seat, drink the still too hot coffee, listen as Richard continues.

"I thought you said this wasn't about Brendan?"

"I know you love him, and that's...I'm not saying there's anything bad about that. I'm glad you feel happier. But...but what if he leaves you again?"

I have to strain to hear him; it's like he doesn't want to speak too loudly. Like he thinks I'm some delicate little fragile thing.

"He's not going to leave me again. He promised. He gave me his word."

"Things happen. Things happened last time."

"That's not the same. His life, it was..." _Chaotic_. "It's different now. Don't give me that look. It _is_. He's different. You don't see because you don't know him like I do. You don't know him at all. But he's not going to do those things again."

Richard sips his drink. He's staring at me like I'm about to pounce on him.

"I'm saying this because I used to do the same thing. When I first started using, I had no one. People came into my life, people who I loved - one person who I loved, Ste. And I thought that they could make me get better, that as long as I had them I could do anything, be anything. But when they were gone again, I went back to the same place I was in before."

I'm shaking my head, my kunckles tensing in anger.

"No. That's not what's...he's not going to leave me."

It's like he hasn't heard me.

"Maybe you can give it a few months. Just take a break from each other. Brendan will still be there. But you can concentrate on _you_. For as long as I've known you you've been with someone - your ex husband, John Paul, now Brendan. I don't know if they allow you to see clearly."

"I can't see clearly when I'm not with him." I'm on my feet now; the chair that I was sitting on is on the floor, keeled over. "I can't see anything. I can't do this without him, don't you get that?" My hands are balled into fists, my breath coming fast.

Richard's turned pale. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"Yes you did. And if you think that I'm going to walk away from my marriage then you're wasting your time. I'm not ever coming back to the group if that's what I have to do."

"You don't have to do anything. I was just..." He sighs, stands. "This was a bad idea."

"Yeah, it was." I look away from him.

"I just want you to be happy. Healthy."

I snort. "I think you should go now."

He makes for the door, stops before he's out of the kitchen.

"I hope you have a good holiday, Ste. You're always welcome to come back to us."

::::::

I'm lying in bed when Brendan comes back with the shopping. I listen to him moving around in the kitchen, putting things away in cupboards. He's humming to himself. He sounds happy.

When he's finished he comes to find me, stops in the doorway and looks at me. I'm staring straight ahead at the ceiling. There aren't any cracks in his one, not like the ceiling back in my old flat.

"Lying in bed during the day. What will people think?" He's smiling, and when he approaches the bed he strips off his top, gets started on his jeans.

"Don't." I say. "Don't."

He stops.

"Something wrong?" There's a nervous edge to his voice; not many people would notice it, but I do.

I sit up on my elbows. I'm fully dressed, the covers pushed off me because of the heat.

"You called him. You called Richard."

Brendan gives a kind of laugh. "No I didn't."

"Yeah you did." I say every word slowly, accusingly. _Yeah. You. Did. _

He scratches the back of his neck: another sign that he's nervous. Licks his lips. Looks around the room before back at me.

"He wanted to see you. He came because of you, not because of me. Is that so hard to believe?"

"So you didn't ask him to come?"

"No." He's looking at me like I'm being crazy.

I laugh, get out of bed. The covers go onto the floor. I move towards him, shove him squarely in the chest.

"Liar."

He's staring at me disbelievingly.

"How did he know about the holiday, eh? How did he know that we're planning to go away?"

Brendan's got an answer, quick as lightning. "You told him."

"No I never."

"Yeah you did."

"Don't try and make me feel stupid. I never told him that." I wait, seeing what he'll do. If he's cruel enough to continue to lie to me, make me feel like this is all in my head.

For a second I think he's going to, but then his shoulders sag and the fight leaves his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

I push him again. He staggers back. I can't have hurt him, not really; I think it's the shock of it.

"How could you do that? How could you go behind my back like that?" I'm glad the kids have gone. I don't want them to see me like this, hear me shouting.

"_Behind your back_?" He echos, and it's like he can't believe what he's hearing. "Grow up, Steven."

It riles me further and I go to hit him again, but he takes hold of both my hands, stops me and won't let me go even when I struggle, when I try to lash out at him again.

"I was worried, okay?" It's like it hurts him to admit it. "I was worried about you, about what you might..."

"What I might what?" I'm still trying to fight to get at him.

"What you might do." He's avoiding my eyes, his words mumbled.

I feel like I've been winded. "You think I was going to take drugs again?"

Brendan lets me go. It's like he doesn't care if I hurt him now, but I don't. I don't touch him.

"Why would you think that?" I say, and it's like when he first came back; it's like we're having that conversation all over again. It's like I'm telling him for the first time what I did when he was away, and daring him to still be able to love me.

"The way you were acting when the kids were here."

For a moment I don't have a clue what he's talking about. Things were good when the kids were here - good in a way that I didn't think was possible a few years ago.

"After we went iceskating, and you were... You didn't want to look at me, Steven. And now not wanting to go to meetings. Ignoring Richard's calls. What else am I supposed to think?"

"You're supposed to trust me!" I don't plan on telling him, but he's hurt me, and I want to hurt him. "And not being able to look at you - it's because I was upset and I didn't want you to see, okay? Because like an idiot, I care about you. It wasn't because I was off my head on something."

It's a mistake. Brendan's holding onto me tighter now, expression panicked.

"Upset? What were you upset about?"

I should stop, but I can't.

"I remembered. It's fucking _stupid_, but I remembered what Walker did to me and Cheryl." When Brendan looks blank, it makes my words grow vicious. "Want me to fill you in? Want me to remind you of when he kidnapped us, locked us up? When I couldn't breathe, when I thought I was going to die? When all I could think about was Leah and Lucas and you, even though you'd just battered me? Even though I could still feel the bruises you gave me? Does that refresh your memory?"

I don't have the energy to hit him again. I sit back against the end of the bed, feeling like the fire's gone out of me.

"I'm not taking drugs again, Brendan. Because if I do, then everything that I've worked for...everything _we've_ worked for, it all comes falling down, doesn't it? But it doesn't mean I never think about it."

"You think about it?"

"Yeah." My throat feels dry, scratched. "Sometimes. When I think about what I did to my mum, and -"

"Your mum was ill, Steven. She asked you. She never should have, but...she asked you. You didn't kill her."

"I did though, didn't I? And...Doug. He'd still be alive now if it wasn't for me, wouldn't he? If I had left him alone, and never got back with him. He'd probably be off travelling somewhere, or...or he'd be with some other bloke."

"That's my fault. If I hadn't left you..."

"Maybe it's both our fault."

He's silent. I have this strange desire to comfort him, to make it better even though I caused it.

"But you want to know why I really wouldn't do it? Why I wouldn't go back there?"

He waits. He waits like everything depends on my answer.

"Because I'm happy. I'm happy with you. That's what Richard doesn't understand."

"Richard? He say something?"

"No, just..."

"Steven." Brendan comes to me, picks me up, brushes his thumb along my chin then runs it over my lips. "If he said something -"

"He thinks I'd be better off without you." My voice twists. "He doesn't know anything."

Brendan's tracing my lips. "Does he thinks I'm getting in the way of you...of your recovery?"

I can feel him pulling away from me, believing in Richard's words.

"He's wrong, Bren." I put my arms around him, kiss him. His lips are soft, reluctant against mine. He's withdrawing from me and I can't let him. "They're all wrong. I need you."

"Christ, Steven. You wouldn't even be remembering all these things - Walker, and... you wouldn't even be remembering them if it wasn't for me."

I kiss him to stop myself from remembering again. There's only him when I do this, no room for anything else to get in. He's still arching away from me, and I put my hands on his chest while I kiss him, feel where I shoved him minutes ago. My hands are gentle this time, and I can sense him giving in; he opens his mouth for me, slips his tongue in alongside mine. His hand is on my back, and I feel as it moves under my t-shirt and onto the bare skin beneath. His skin is hot, burning through his clothes. He helps me undress him; kicks himself out of his jeans, watches as I leave a trail of my own clothes on the floor.

I close the door even though there's no one else home; lock it and crawl over to him on the bed, take his dick by the root and suck him slowly, emptying both our heads.

::::::

_Three years ago _

Things are getting bad again.

I thought it was fixed. I thought that with me and John Paul being together, it would all get better.

Turns out I'm not allowed to feel safe. I'm not allowed to relax for one second, otherwise before I know it things have changed around me.

I found out my family are moving away. _Moving away_ isn't even right - moved: there, that sounds more like the truth. They've already gone.

I only just found out earlier today. Weren't even going to tell me, were they? They probably would have left me to work it out by myself. I would have gone to visit them, seen their place up for sale, and that's the first I would have heard of it. Maybe they would have sent me a postcard, or a quick phone call wishing me the best.

Yeah. That's how much they care.

It was fine saying goodbye to my dad, and it shouldn't have been, should it? Saying goodbye to the man I'd spent half my life wondering about - it should have been one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I've only just found him again, only just got to know him, but when I was talking to him, I realised that everything I know is everything I don't like. It was like he was saying all the things he thought he should say, all the things a dad would say, but it didn't suit him.

I had to get away. I couldn't stand there and know that it wasn't hard for Danny to leave me, and it wasn't hard for me to leave him.

I'd always wanted sisters though. I remember when I was younger, thinking about how different things could be if I had someone around who wasn't my mum or Terry. Finally I had that. I'd lost my own family, the one I'd created, but I had something. I had _something_.

I've been drinking when John Paul finds me. I'm at The Dog, sitting outside in the sun, and there are all these people around me - _families_ - and they're drinking and they're having a good time, and they're part of something that I'm not part of. I could get booze down the shops that's cheaper than the stuff I'm having, but then I'd have to go back to the flat and be on my own again, and it's like even the air is trapped there. I need to clear my head, but it's not working; I'm thinking of them all driving away, Danny and my sisters and Sam, and what have I really got that's mine?

John Paul pulls up a chair. He's looking at my glass, and I can see what he's thinking, see him judging me. He does that. It's like he forgets who his family is, forgets that he hasn't got the right, and he gives me this look like he doesn't even know what world I'm from.

He gives me a shaky smile. I'm not being fair. I think about what he's told me, how honest he was, what he's been through.

"You alright?" I ask, and my speech is slurred but we both try to pretend it's not.

"Yeah. But you're not, are you? I heard about your family leaving."

I wonder how he's heard. If news has spread and it's his family shouting their mouths off, or if he talked to Danny before he left. Been sniffing around him again, has he? I imagine the goodbye they might have had: arms around each other, _I'm going to miss you_, laughing at me. Always laughing at me.

"Better off without them, aren't I? They were never going to stay for long."

"Why not?"

_No one ever stays. _

"Anyway, forget about me." I _need_ him to forget about me; if he forgets then maybe I can forget too. "How are you?"

I look at him, try and drown everything else out: my boyfriend. Here, in front of me. Real.

He won't let it go though. He puts a hand over mine. It's an unfamiliar hand; it's not the hand that I came to know, that I used to feel touching me.

"Whatever happens, you've got me."

He's right. I've lost my sisters and my kids, but I still have him. I'm just not sure it's enough.


	6. Chapter 6

Tegan wants me to stay round at hers. It's late, going on eleven, and we've all collapsed on the sofa after dinner. The tv's on in the background but none of us are really watching it. I keep checking my phone; Brendan will be at work still, and I know tonight will be hectic for him, but it doesn't stop me looking. I wait for the screen to light up, to hear the familiar sound of the vibration. _Hoping_ - it's hoping rather than waiting.

"Stay overnight," Tegan says, and Peri and Leela agree, offer me my old room. I glance at Danny. He's at the sink washing up, and I can't see his face but I watch him anyway, see if I notice anything - his back tensing, anything that'll suggest that he doesn't want me staying over.

"No, you're alright." I feel dread for what I know is about to come. This is our routine now whenever I come over: it gets late, late enough that they all argue that I shouldn't bother going back, that it's easier if I just stay the night._ It'll be like old times. _They don't realise that I don't look back at _old times_ and miss them. I want to bury them.

I want to go home. It's only been a few hours but I'm thinking about it; the familiar walk back to our flat, and how even when the lights aren't on outside our place it's not _dark_ dark, not like when you're a kid and you're afraid, when you start imagining things living in the blackness. In the hallway there's a place where we keep our shoes, and the kids have theirs for when they come to stay; they're coated in mud now, and we don't bother to clean them because that's what they wear when we go to the park. I like seeing them there - it's permanent, isn't it?

The kitchen is bigger than in my old flat. It's bigger than any kitchen I've ever had. I told Brendan that I didn't need anything flashy. I've got the kitchen at The Hutch, but I must not have been quick enough hiding my reaction when we first saw the place, because it's like he knew this was the one right away. The kitchen isn't my favourite room though. You should see our living room. We've made it really cosy - or _I _have, because Brendan doesn't do any decorating, except at Christmas when he's like a kid round the tree. I brought pillows, tons of them stacked up on the sofa, and sometimes we bring the cover from our bed into there, put it over us while we're watching a film or just eating dinner.

I thought it would be weird, coming back to Brendan's old flat whenever I'm seeing my sisters. But it stopped being Brendan's flat when he came out of prison and moved back in with me. I used to see him there, used to hear his voice and remember where he used to stand, remember how he used to move around inside the place. But I didn't have to do that anymore when he came out. He was in front of me, _with_ me. I didn't need the ghost.

It's like feeling homesick. That's what it's like right now, here with my sisters and my dad.

I get up from the sofa, head towards the door and put on my shoes. I can feel their eyes on me, and I know what they want to say. They think it's him, don't they. They think it's Brendan dragging me back, that he's got this hold on me, that he just has to click his fingers and I'll do what he says. I'll let them carry on believing that, because it would hurt them worse to know it's me that wants to leave them.

Peri comes to me.

"Don't go."

I touch her cheek. "What's all this, eh? I'll see you soon. Come into The Hutch tomorrow, yeah? I'll try and get you a free drink." I wink at her, but she's not buying it, not completely.

She opens her mouth to say more, but Leela's behind her, her hand at her back and telling her to go and give Danny a hand with the drying up.

She crosses her arms, gives me a tight smile.

"How long was it this time? Two hours, maybe three?"

"What are you on about?" My hand's at the door. It's only a short walk to the club. I'm so close to Brendan now. So close.

"It's like you're fitting us into your schedule, Ste." She's trying to keep her voice down - for Peri's sake, I'm guessing - but she's not just going to let me walk out the door.

"Don't be daft. I'm just busy."

"You weren't as busy when you were with John Paul. You actually had time for us then."

I make a noise, sounds almost like a laugh that's beyond my control. I see Tegan rise from the sofa, and I know she's ready to come between us if she has to.

"Leela," she says, and it's a warning.

"It's true." Leela stares at me, doesn't look away. "Look at him - he's ready to run away."

"I'm not _running_. I'm going home, alright? I'm tired." They don't have to know that I'm going to the club to see Brendan.

I think Leela might be about to let me go, but then her hands are at my wrists and she's trying to pull up my sleeves.

"What are you doing?" I'm wriggling away from her, twisting out of her hold. I can see Danny looking over at us, standing there, not cutting in and stopping her.

"I'm checking."

"Checking for what?" I think I know what, and it makes me want to run like she said. Run before I do something I'll regret.

"To see that he hasn't done anything to you."

"He hasn't. He _hasn't_." I pull away from her, the force of it nearly making her stumble back into Tegan. "Just leave it. Just -"

"Ste, she's only saying because she cares." Always the peacemaker, is Tegan.

"That's not caring. That's interfering." I turn my back on them, pull the door open roughly. "Say bye to the others for me."

I'm out into the air, the door slamming behind me. I need to get away. I walk so that I'm out of sight if one of them tries to get me to come back. But it seems unlikely; they'll be inside, won't they? Talking about me, about Brendan. The idea of what they could be saying makes me walk faster, drives me forward. I need to see him.

Colin waves me into the club. It's a themed night and everyone else seems to be paying, but I don't try and protest this time. The music's loud and both floors are packed, drinks being spilled onto the floor because of how tightly people are pressed together, bumping into each other,

I scan the bar, look across the floor but I can't see him. I get through the crowd, have to elbow a few people out of my way, and when I reach the office door I bang loudly, fighting to be heard above the music.

The door opens. I throw myself at him before he can say anything.

My arms are around him, my whole body against his. I can feel the heat of him through his clothes, and after a moment's hesitation he's holding onto me just as hard, and I can feel him stroking me.

"Everything okay?" He pulls back. He's frowning, searching my face.

"Fine. I just needed to see you."

He wants to ask more, but it's like he stops himself, knows that it's not what I need right now.

"Come in if you like." Brendan stands back as I enter the office and sit on the sofa. He closes the door and the sound's cut off enough for us to hear each other properly.

"No," I say as he goes to sit at the chair behind his desk. "Sit with me. Just for a while."

There's still that same concern on his face. I budge up to allow him space, and our legs are pressed together against the sofa. I don't say anything for a minute, just feel him calming me down.

"How was dinner?" I hear the question, but I don't think that's what he's asking me. There's a weight to his words like he knows something's wrong.

I shrug. "Peri says hi."

"Okay."

"The others too."

Brendan doesn't say anything to that. Maybe he knows it's a lie.

"Your dad's birthday's coming up, isn't it?"

I look at him. How does he know that when even I don't?

"Who told you?" I try and imagine Brendan and Danny talking in the village, but I can't.

"Lucas told me."

He must have heard when I brought the kids round to Danny and Sam's last week.

"Right."

"You going round to theirs, or..."

"No. Nothing, no."

"What do you mean, nothing?" Brendan says.

"I'm not doing anything. It's a Thursday, isn't it?" I say, remembering the date of Danny's birthday. "We were going to go out that day."

"We can go out anytime, Steven."

Even as he says it I'm not sure he believes it. When you've lost as much time as we have, every moment feels like something you need to keep hold of.

"We have plans."

"Won't Danny be...you know. Hurt or something?"

I shrug. "He wasn't here for my birthday's, was he? I'll give him a card."

"I don't want to cause problems with you and your family." He's quiet, staring straight ahead.

"You won't. It's not you." I wonder how I can explain to him that I only have one family.

I try and change the subject, put my hand on his thigh, rub him through the fabric. He's wearing grey trousers, the material shiny. I wonder if he ironed them the wrong way instead of inside out. He told me that once, didn't he? It makes them shiny when they're not ironed properly.

"What time are you getting off?"

"Usual time." His eyes move from my eyes to my lips. "Or early. I could try and go early."

I nod, smiling. I'm not homesick anymore.

::::::

I hear the rustling of the cover when I wake up. I turn over, can see the outline of his hand moving rhythmically underneath. I wipe the sleep out of my eyes, propping myself up on my side and watching him. It takes a minute or two for him to see that I'm awake; he's got his eyes closed, and when he opens them he glances at me, stilling in his movements.

I push the cover off him, leave it tangled at the bottom of the bed. We've got a king size, the kind that you can really spread yourself out in. It feels massive when I'm in it alone, and smaller when we're curled up like this, pressed tightly together in the mornings.

He's looking at me like he's been caught red handed; there's no shame to his expression but he waits, sees what I'll do next.

I lean forward, kiss him on his chin rather than his lips. I get the texture of stubble against me, his beard scraping across my skin.

He's naked. We both are. He usually sleeps naked, and the heat's making me do the same. His dick's lying on his stomach; he must have been touching himself for a while before I woke up.

"Disgusting behaviour," I say, and he laughs loudly, the sound rumbling from him.

"Sorry," he says, and he's not sorry at all.

I climb onto him. We're chest to chest and I'm kissing him. My hand comes between our bodies, finds his cock and squeezes it, and I hear Brendan's intake of breath.

I jerk him off slowly in the way that makes his toes curl. I'm kissing his chest as I do it, my mouth moving down his body, and it's like he knows he doesn't have to be quiet because there's no kids staying with us. I think I'm going to make him come in my hand then he'll return the favour, but he changes position, lifts his legs in the air and holds them so his cheeks are splayed.

I grab the lube from the beside drawer, pour some into my hand. He's tight when I test him with a finger; he winces like I've hurt him, and I have to kiss the inside of his thighs to make him relax, keep kissing him there while I stroke his rim. I use lots of lube; he likes it, the slippery feel of it, and when I go in again with a finger he's ready for it this time. I watch his face, see him wanting me.

I wrap my hand around my dick, stroke hard.

He wants my mouth on him, my tongue in him. He sits up for a second, takes my hand away when I try to add another finger, and he runs his thumb over my lips, lets me know what he wants next.

I can taste lube. It's flavourless but almost sickly, and I probe my tongue deeper inside him until I can't taste it anymore, and I can only taste him. He's hot and tight still; it seems impossible that I'll be able to push in deeper, but as the tension leaves his body he lets me in, and as I wrap my hand tighter around my cock and squeeze, his hand mirrors mine around his own.

I bury my face in him, jerk off roughly now. I'm close; I'm breathless from what I'm doing to him and I'm what I'm doing to myself, and the scent of him is musky and masculine, and the taste of him is the same as I always remembered in the years that he was gone.

He spills onto his stomach, cries out as he does it, legs winding round my back, the heels of his feet rough against me. He takes a second to recover before he pulls me to him, positioning me at the head of the bed, taking my dick in his hand and putting his mouth around it.

"Brendan." I'm warning him; he's only just secured his lips around me when I come in his mouth, shooting erratically down his throat.

We lie next to each other, his cum drying on his stomach. We're sticky with sweat, and we look at each other and laugh, his eyes shining.

::::::

I know something's wrong when he comes to visit me at work.

He's tense, quiet, playing with his food when I bring it to him. He's ordered a steak, and it remains mostly untouched, prodded by his fork, shoved around his plate.

I'm in the kitchen with Tony, and I keep on finding excuses to go outside; I tell him that I want to check how busy we are, or I want to see if everything's alright with the food. By the forth time I've come back to the kitchen, Tony turns to me, exasperated.

"Do you want to be here or not?"

"'Course." I pretend I don't know what he's getting at; turn my back on him, the image of Brendan's nervous gaze in my head, how he hadn't returned the smile that I'd given him, the corners of his mouth merely twitching like it hurt his jaw to try.

"What's wrong then?"

I can't be here, that's what's wrong. I can't be at work when I'm aware of Brendan outside, and something being wrong, something that I'm not aware of and that I don't know how to fix.

"Tony, can I go for my break now?" I look at the clock, see that it's only fifteen minutes till my usual break.

"Ste!"

"Please? I wouldn't ask if I wasn't desperate."

"Go on then. Just don't go running off, okay?"

I quickly take my apron off, try not to think about the impression I'm creating. He only recently left me in charge and here I am, already letting him down, getting distracted.

Brendan looks surprised when I join him at his table, his plate still full.

"Not hungry?" I say, grabbing his fork off him and taking a bite of the steak. It's not how I like it - he likes it so rare it's practically mooing - but it gives me something to do.

He ignores the question, lowers his eyes.

"Got a visit today."

_A visit?_ I look up, feel panic rising in me. Eileen, telling him that she's changed her mind about the kids coming to stay with us? Someone from prison, someone who Brendan didn't tell me about, who he thought was dead and buried? Or -

_The police? _

"Don't worry, it wasn't..." He must know what I'm thinking, because he's in a rush to put me right. "It was that sister of yours."

"My _sister_?" I feel almost as shocked as if it had been the boys in blue. "Which one? Were they at the flat? Why were they there? They must have known I'd be here. What did they want?"

"Slow down. Jesus. My head's sore." As if to prove his point he rubs his knuckles against his temples, massaging.

"No, but why were they... Who came to the flat, Brendan?"

"It wasn't the flat. It was the club."

They must have wanted to speak to him, then. They'd have known that I wouldn't be at Chez Chez, not at this time.

I know that Peri and Tegan wouldn't do that to me. They keep out of things like that. My dad and Sam too - they know better than trying to interfere. Danny knows most of all; he's tried it in the past, and it was enough to tell him that I won't stand for it.

But Leela would. She'd interfere, try and stick her nose in.

"What did Leela want?"

"She's feisty, isn't she?" Brendan picks up a chip, chews on it slowly. "Good at shouting her mouth off. Got a pout on her too. I can definitely see the family resemblance."

"Shut up. What was she saying?" I think of yesterday, and of her rolling up my sleeves, checking for marks. I think of how she hasn't backed down, how she'd looked when I told her I'd finished with John Paul. _You're making a mistake. _That's what she'd said when I'd moved in with Brendan, when she'd built up a case against him that was based on everything she'd heard; village gossip that had spread in the weeks and months since Brendan had been released.

"Usual," Brendan says, and I know what the usual is. His eyes flicker to me then away, like he's scared to look. Like I could be feeling differently about him to how I felt this morning.

I think I know why he came here now. Why he wanted to do this in public instead of waiting for me to come home. He wants me around people when he tells me, doesn't he? He knows that I'll be forced to control my reaction. If we were back at the flat I'd be straight round to Leela's; I imagine Brendan fighting to keep up with me in the street on the way over, trying to stop me.

I'm angry at him. I'm angry at him for giving me no choice but to try and stay calm. I can't have Tony seeing me going off on one, and I don't have enough time to go to see Leela in my break. There's nothing I can do but try and rein everything in, and Brendan knows it.

"Has she said anything else to you lately?"

"What do you mean?" I ask. I'm hoping my poker face is better than I think it is.

"About...me. Us."

"No." I don't want to hurt him. I don't want to tell him about yesterday, about what Leela thinks he's still capable of doing to me. "No, she hasn't said anything."

He doesn't look like he believes me, but he lets it drop. I'm desperate to hear more about his conversation with her - about what she said to him, if she hurt him. If I didn't know him so well then the idea would seem ridiculous: Brendan Brady, _hurt? _

That's what scares me: Leela doesn't know that he can hurt worse than anyone.

"She was saying you haven't been spending much time with them. Your dad, and...all of them."

"So what? I've told you, I don't want to." It sounds harsher than I'd intended.

"They're your family." Brendan sounds like he's reading lines from a script, saying what he's expected to.

"No, _you're_ my family. They weren't even..." I close my eyes, just for a second, just long enough so that my vision doesn't feel distorted with images that are trying to get in. "They weren't even there for me. Danny wasn't even... You don't know what it was like when you were away. I wasn't living in some paradise, if you think that."

"I don't think that."

"Then stop listening to Leela, and my dad and everyone else."

"I'm not -"

"Yeah, you are." I see a couple sitting at the table next to ours looking in our direction, hastily staring back down at their plates when I catch their eye. I lower my voice. "I see it. Every time they start interfering you believe them, don't you? A part of you believes they're right. That I'm better off without you."

I'm wishing that he hadn't done this here, now. My skin feels hot, my work uniform tight like it's cutting off my breathing. It's four years ago, and I'm in that hospital room. _Do you want me to spend the rest of my life with people telling me that I'm better off without you? Because I'm not._

I dry my eyes with the sleeves of my shirt; I can't feel anything there, but it feels fragile, on the brink.

"I'm sorry." Brendan's voice is scratchy, low. I see him reach out a hand across the table, then take it away; maybe he thinks I'll attack him if he touches me right now. Maybe he's right.

"She asked me if you're still going to the meetings," Brendan says, and there's a note of tentativeness in his voice, like he's treading softly here.

I had hoped that Leela had forgotten about the meetings. She used to mention them - check up on me more like - but it's been weeks since she's said anything. Or maybe it's me. Maybe I haven't given her the chance.

_He's ready to run away. _

"What did you tell her?"

"The truth. That you've been going."

"Good." I nod, satisfied. I imagine her face when Brendan told her; she wouldn't have been able to argue back, accuse him of being a bad influence when she found out that I've been going to every meeting.

"I told her that you wanted to stop though."

"What? What did you tell her that for?" My chest feels tight. The fork that I was holding clatters on the plate as I drop it. It can't have made much of a sound in the busy restaurant, but Brendan flinches like it's echoing around the walls.

I stand up, am aware of Brendan's hand on my arm, of him trying to talk to me, but I wrestle free of him, watch as he stands across from me, his gaze wide eyed and a film of sweat gathering on his forehead.

"Steven."

"Everyone's going behind my back, aren't they? First with you and Richard, then Leela, now you _again_. What are you going to do next, Brendan, hm? Call Amy, have my kids taken away from me too?"

"Don't be ridiculous." His words have no power behind them. His shoulders are sagging. He looks shrunken in on himself, like my words have made him small.

"Don't call me ridiculous." People are definitely looking now. Blessing's staring over at us, ignoring the table that she's meant to be serving. I hear the door open, swinging on its hinges. Tony's come out of the kitchen, looking around the restaurant, searching for the source of the disruption.

I've fucked up. Again.

I want to crash out of the restaurant, go round to Leela's and have it out with her. She's planting things in Brendan's head, twisting it. But it's what they'll all be expecting, isn't it? Danny and my sisters and Amy. They think Brendan brings out the worst in me, that he's made me do this, turned me into this person.

I take a breath, steady myself with a hand on the table.

"I'll be back in a minute," I say to Tony, and I'm not sure if he buys it, but he doesn't seem to have heard enough to make him stay and throw me out. He gives Blessing a look, and I know he's asking her to keep an eye on me, to report back if anything else happens. I'm still their little project, see. I'm still this thing they need to worry about.

I turn back to Brendan, see the worry in his eyes and know that I've caused it.

"If I go to the meeting tonight, will it get you to all shut up?" I don't know what makes me say it. I didn't think I'd ever offer to set foot in that place again. Maybe I just don't want him to think I'm scared.

He swallows down everything else he's going to say, all the things that are still bubbling between us, everything that he's still not sure about.

"I'll come with you if you want?"

"You can give me a lift. I'm going alone."

::::::

We pull up in Brendan's car. It's been too short of a drive. Why is it always like that when you're dreading something? I remember when I went to see Brendan in Dublin, and the journey seemed to take for ever. I was excited, wasn't I, and I did everything I could to make the plane ride go quicker; I listened to music, watched the films they had, ate all the in flight food I could stomach. But now, drawing up in front of the building where Richard and everyone else is - it hasn't taken long enough.

I check the time. Five minutes before the meeting starts.

"You sure you don't want me to come with you?"

"Yes." I'm snapping at him, barely looking at him. It was like this when I said goodbye to him at the restaurant, and later when we met back at the flat. He's got time off work to take me to this, but I haven't thanked him, haven't even acknowledged it.

I know what it's doing to him. This silence, the way I'm speaking to him like I hate him.

"Sorry." I stretch out my seat and touch him for the first time in hours, our legs resting together.

"S'okay."

"No it's not. You shouldn't have to... We'll be out of here soon, won't we? We're still going away, aren't we?" I feel a twisting in my stomach - what if he's changed his mind?

"You sure Amy's going to be alright with us going away, leaving the kids?"

"We're not _leaving_ them. It's only for a week or two, isn't it? And anyway, she can't say anything because she's gone on holiday before with Simon, hasn't she?"

I wait for Brendan to reel off more excuses, but he's smiling when he looks at me.

"Not like you need the sun, is it? Look at you."

"What?" I stare down at myself, try and see where he's looking.

"Haven't got any white bits, have you?"

"Not like you," I say, and he pretends to be offended, gives me a mock scowl. "So we're still going, Bren, aren't we?"

"I've already booked time off work, so we better be."

There's a moment of hesitation while I look at him, his words sinking in. Then my face is close to his, and my lips are on his lips, and I'm kissing him as hard as I ever have, my hands tangled in his hair. I can feel him smiling.

I almost want him to come with me now. I want to put an end to this, to the uncertainty of the last few days, of how it's felt like there's tension crackling between us. But I need to speak to Richard, and Brendan can't be there when I do.

"I'm going to get a coffee," he says. There's a place near here. I remember waiting there for hours before my first meeting, building up the courage to go inside when the time came. They came to know me well in there; they were delicate around me like I was about to explode.

We get out of the car. The place is quiet, and for a moment I can kid myself that there's no danger, that there isn't even anyone waiting inside the building for me. Brendan touches me briefly, his thumb brushing against my chin, then a kiss, soft - once, twice, three times.

He walks away, says he'll meet me back at the car in an hour. There's a breeze today, a relief from the heat of the last few weeks; it's making his hair stick up in different directions. I love him.

He's out of sight now. I could run away, couldn't I? Brendan would never know, would never find out unless Richard calls us, but I could stop that, could make sure that Brendan doesn't answer the phone, doesn't get any messages. I'm planning it out in my head already, the secrets I could keep from him, the lies I could tell.

He's trusting me though. He's walking away and he doesn't have to. He could follow me inside like John Paul used to, could wait outside the door for the entire session just to make sure that I don't lose my nerve and try and escape. But Brendan's believing that I won't do that. He wouldn't even have driven me here if I hadn't asked him; he would have stayed at the club, let me go alone and trusted that I would have come.

I walk inside.

It's so familiar that it seems stupid that I was frightened of this. The set up is the same as always: the water, coffee and tea on a table in the corner. The chairs arranged in a circle. Richard at the centre, everyone looking at him like he knows something they don't, like he's about to solve everything.

But it feels harder. It feels harder to walk up to them all. It's like I can feel them staring at me, and when I make myself a coffee it seems to take for ever; I stir and stir with my spoon until the clang of the metal seems to ring out across the room, and it feels like there's not a single person who isn't looking at me now.

Tony's said I have a steady hand, thinks that I could carry two full trays across the restaurant and not spill anything. I don't feel steady now though. I feel shaky, and I can see the way my cup's wobbling as I make my way to the circle. I almost drop it swerving past someone, and when I look up I see Stacey dodging to avoid me. _She did that on purpose. _The thought runs through my head, and maybe Richard's seen the whole thing because the next thing I know he's starting the meeting, taking charge before I can say anything.

He doesn't mention the last meeting. Maybe he's trying to make it normal, not draw attention to it, but it's all I can think about. When it's my turn to speak it's like I can feel the air change, and I when I shake my head and Brian begins to talk, I cross my arms and lean further back in my seat, away from them all.

I try not to listen when Stacey begins to talk. I focus on the cup in my hand, on the now cold coffee that's at the bottom, the grains of it that I didn't manage to stir in dark and gritty. It sounds like she's saying everything she thinks she should: _my recovery_ and _the program_ and _the steps _and none of it's real, not a bit of it, and at the end she looks like she thinks she's passed some test.

I don't think my first meeting felt this long.

I'm the first on my feet when the hour's over. I don't stop to chat like I sometimes do, and I don't offer to help to tidy up. I'm close to the door when I hear Richard calling me back.

He wants me to stay behind while the others leave. I feel like I'm that kid at school again, being asked to stay for detention or to speak to the headmaster. Everyone's going home but I'm still stuck here, still the one who's done something wrong.

Brendan will be waiting for me. He might start worrying, might think that I've run off without him.

"I really need to get going." I say it before Richard's had a chance to speak.

"It won't take long."

So I stay, and I wait for him to tell me how I've fucked up this time.

::::::

He's brought me water in a plastic cup. Maybe he thinks that I'll throw it at him if he brings me something stronger.

"Have I done something wrong?" I say. It doesn't sound much like a question.

Richard looks surprised, or maybe he's good at pretending. "No. Why would you think that?"

I don't answer him.

"No Brendan today?"

"Yeah, he's been hiding under my seat all this time."

I think he's going to snap at me, but he gives me a smile and sips at his drink.

"He's waiting for me in the car," I explain, and I try to add weight to it, let Richard know that I can't be hanging around waiting for him to get to the point.

"Right." He seems to get it, because suddenly he's racing ahead. "He's welcome anytime, Ste. When I came to see you, I wasn't...I wasn't saying that I thought you should cut Brendan out of your life."

"Yeah you was."

"No, I -"

"You was. You wanted me to end things with him. With my _husband_."

For a moment I think he's going to argue with me, but he swallows it down. "I've had a word with Stacey."

"Told you where to stick it, did she?"

"No. She regrets what she said."

He's lying to me, spinning me a tale that he thinks I'll like.

"It won't happen again. If you come back..."

"I'll come." I'm tired of fighting. Tired of feeling like I'm letting people down. I don't know if I'll be able to stick to it, but for now I'll keep on coming.

Richard nods, satisfied. "And Brendan's welcome to return too, of course."

"Thanks, but that was just a one time thing."

"It might help to have him here, Ste. Someone who's supportive."

"So first you want me to end things with him, and now you want him to be here?"

"I told you, I shouldn't have... It's about what you want."

I stand up, throwing my cup in the bin. I look out the window, but I can't see Brendan's car from here.

I lower my voice even though no one else can hear.

"I don't want him coming back. I don't want him to... He can't ever find out, okay? He can't ever find out about me trying to kill myself."

::::::

_Three years ago_

They came crawling back, didn't they. All of them.

They'd only been driving for a few hours when they turned the car around. Then they were at the flat again, outside the doorstep: Danny, Sam. Leela chasing after Peri who was crying, and Tegan trying to calm them down.

It wasn't me who brought them back. It wasn't because they realised that they'd miss me too much, or because Danny knew he couldn't leave me. They'd been lying, see. Danny and Sam and Leela. I could hear them all in the kitchen while I was upstairs in my old room. They all knew except me and Tegan; they all knew that Peri's Leela's daughter, not Sam's.

Another thing they forgot to tell me.

"Bloody hell." John Paul's sitting on the floor while I'm on the bed. I'd gone back to the boarding house. I didn't fancy hearing them all shouting at each other back at the flat. "Are you sure?"

"What do you mean, am I sure? I heard them, didn't I."

"But Leela must have had Peri when she was a teenager. That's a bit dodgy, isn't it?"

_Dodgy?_ She was just a kid herself. And kids should be protected, shouldn't they?

"I'm gonna fucking kill that Cameron."

"Cameron? That new chef Tony hired?"

"He's the dad, isn't he?"

"How do you know?"

"I heard Danny say." I'm getting sick of running through it all; I feel like my life is behind a jar and John Paul's tapping at the glass, trying to break it.

"Leave it."

I sit up. "He took advantage of her."

"He's her age, isn't he?"

"That doesn't mean it's okay. You can't just...people can't just go around doing that to kids. That's not right, that's..."

"Hey. Hey, come here." John Paul holds his arms out, wraps them around me. My body feels stiff, and it's like he's trying to mold me against him, but I can't do it. I can't.

He speaks again when I've settled, when I've stopped gasping into his chest.

"How about we get away this weekend?"

"I can't." I wipe my nose against my sleeve. "My family, and..." And _I don't know_. I don't know why I'm staying here for them when they didn't want to stay for me.

"Come on. They'll be okay. We could go to see your kids if you want. I could take Matthew."

"Really?" I try to picture it, all of us in Manchester, me and Leah and Lucas, John Paul and Matthew. _Amy. _"I don't know. It's..." I don't want to tell him about the phone call with Amy, about how she'd reacted when she found out me and John Paul are together.

"You miss them, don't you?"

I can't find the words for how much I miss them. I nod, feel my eyes water.

"Then let's go. We can get away from it all for a while, yeah?"

I've barely said yes before he's started to book the tickets, asking me about hotels or whether we can stay with Amy and her dad. It's like he's forgotten the past, forgotten that Mike might not want him there, that neither of them will. I'm jealous of him; I wish I could forget like he does.

I need to get away though. I feel like I'm screaming inside, and I don't know how much longer I can go without someone hearing it.


End file.
